Page:Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, 1846).djvu/157

Rh Priest—must I cease to think of him?

How hollow rings that word!

Can time, can tears, can distance dim

The memory of my lord?

I said before, I saw not thee,

Because, an hour agone,

Over my eye-balls, heavily,

The lids fell down like stone.

But still my spirit's inward sight

Beholds his image beam

As fixed, as clear, as burning bright,

As some red planet's gleam.

Talk not of thy Last Sacrament,

Tell not thy beads for me;

Both rite and prayer are vainly spent,

As dews upon the sea.

Speak not one word of Heaven above,

Rave not of Hell's alarms;

Give me but back my Walter's love,

Restore me to his arms!

Then will the bliss of Heaven be won;

Then will Hell shrink away,

As I have seen night's terrors shun

The conquering steps of day.

'Tis my religion thus to love,

My creed thus fixed to be;

Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break

My rock-like constancy!