Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/124

68 IX

THE WANDERER FROM THE FOLD

few, of all the hearts that loved,

Are grieving for thee now;

And why should mine to-night be moved

With such a sense of woe?

Too often thus, when left alone,

Where none my thoughts can see,

Comes back a word, a passing tone

From thy strange history.

Sometimes I seem to see thee rise,

A glorious child again;

All virtues beaming from thine eyes

That ever honoured men:

Courage and truth, a generous breast

Where sinless sunshine lay:

A being whose very presence blest

Like gladsome summer-day.

O, fairly spread thy early sail,

And fresh, and pure, and free,

Was the first impulse of the gale

Which urged life's wave for thee!