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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
211
O Death! So many spirits driven
Through this false world, their all had given
To win the everlasting haven
For sufferers so divine:
Why didst thou smite the loved, the blest,
The ardent, and the happy breast,
That full of life desired not rest,
And shrank appalled from thine?
At least, since thou wilt not restore,
In mercy launch one arrow more;
Life's conscious death it wearies sore,
It tortures worse than thee.
Enough if storms have bowed his head,
Grant him at last a quiet bed
Beside his early stricken dead;
Even where he yearns to be!
April 22, 1845
