Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/244

188 LIV

RODERIC

down and rest, the fight is done,

Thy comrades to the camp retire;

Gaze not so earnestly upon

The far gleam of the beacon fire.

O list not to the wind-born sounds,

Of music and of soldiers' cheer;

Thou canst not go—remember wounds

Exhaust thy life and hold thee here.

Had that hand power to raise the sword

Which since this morn laid many low;

Had that tongue strength to speak the word,

That urged thy followers on the foe;

Were that warm blood within thy veins

Which now upon the earth is flowing,

Splashing its sod with crimson stains,

Redding the pale heath round thee growing;

Then Roderic, thou mightst still be turning

With eager eye and anxious breast

To where those signal lights are burning,

To where thy war-worn comrades rest.