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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
181
Heaven help us in this awful hour!
For now might Faith decay.
Now might we doubt God's guardian power
And curse instead of pray.
He will not even let us die,
Not let us die at home;
The foe must see our soldiers fly
As they had feared the tomb!
Because we dare not stay to gain
Those longed-for, glorious graves,
We dare not shrink from slavery's chain
To leave our children slaves!
But when this scene of awful woe
Has neared its final close,
As God forsook our armies, so
May He forsake our foes!
February 24, 1843.
