Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/231

Rh The ancient men in secret say

'Tis the first chief of Aspin grey

That haunts his feudal home;

But why around that alien grave,

Three thousand miles beyond the wave,

Where his exiled ashes lie,

Under the cope of England's sky,

Doth he not rather roam?

I've seen his picture in the hall,

It hangs upon an eastern wall;

And often when the sun declines

That picture like an angel shines.

And when the moonbeam still and blue

Streams the spectral windows through

That picture's like a spectral too.

The hall is full of portraits rare,

Beauty and mystery mingle there;

At his right hand an infant fair

Looks from its golden frame;

And just like his its ringlets bright,

Its large dark eyes of shadowy light,

Its cheek's pure hue, its forehead white,

And like its noble name.

Daughter divine! and could his gaze

Fall coldly on thy peerless face?

And did he never smile to see

Himself restored to infancy?