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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
167
XLVII
ROSINA
Weeks of wild delirium past,
Weeks of fevered pain;
Rest from suffering comes at last;
Reason dawns again.
It was a pleasant April day
Declining to the afternoon;
Sunshine upon her pillow lay
As warm as middle June.
It told her unconsciously
Early spring had hurried by;
'Ah! Time has not delayed for me,'
She murmured with a sigh.
'Angora's hills have heard their tread,
The crimson flag is planted there;
Eldenna's waves are rolling red,
While I lie fettered here!
'Nay, rather, Gondal's shaken throne
Is now secure and free;
And my king Julius reigns alone
Debtless, alas! to me.'
