Page:Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, 1846).djvu/152

142 To-morrow, Scorn will blight my name,

And Hate will trample me,

Will load me with a coward's shame—

A traitor's perjury.

False friends will launch their covert sneers;

True friends will wish me dead;

And I shall cause the bitterest tears

That you have ever shed.

The dark deeds of my outlawed race

Will then like virtues shine;

And men will pardon their disgrace,

Beside the guilt of mine.

For, who forgives the accursed crime

Of dastard treachery?

Rebellion, in its chosen time,

May Freedom's champion be;

Revenge may stain a righteous sword,

It may be just to slay;

But, traitor, traitor,—from that word

All true breasts shrink away!

Oh, I would give my heart to death,

To keep my honour fair;

Yet, I'll not give my inward faith

My honour's name to spare!