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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
Yet love was ever at her feet
In his most burning mood;
That love, which will the wicked greet
As kindly as the good.
And he was noble too, who bowed
So humbly by her side;
Entreating, till his eyes o'erflowed,
Her spirits icy proud.
'Angelica, from my very birth
I have been nursed in strife;
And lived upon this weary Earth
A wanderer, all my life.
'The baited tiger could not be
So much athirst for gore,
For men and laws have tortured me,
Till I can bear no more.
'The guiltless blood upon my hands
Will shut me out from heaven,
And here, and even in foreign lands,
I cannot find a haven.
'And in all space and in all clime,
And through eternity,
To aid a spirit lost in crime,
I have no hope but thee.
