Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/348

292 That clay he feels will not for ever

'Cumber the spirit that would soar

To that deep and swelling river

Which bears the life tree on its shore;

And he the hour would still foresee

That sets his inward angel free.

This Hall and park might wake such dreams,

They speak of pride, of ancestry;

Yes! every fading ray which gleams

On antique roof and hoary tree,

Shows in gnarled bough and mossy slate

The grand remains of ancient state.

And thinks he of Patrician pride,

He who sits lonely there,

Where oaks and elms spread dark and wide

Their huge arms in the air?

He wanders in the world of thought,

He's left this world behind;

On that high brow are clearly wrought

A thousand dreams of mind.

And are they dreams of bliss or bale,

Of happiness or woe?

Methinks that face is all too pale

For pleasure's rosy glow.

Methinks the mellowing haze of years

Is over that tall form spread,

And time has poured her smiles and tears

Full freely round that head.