Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/381

Rh LXVII

no tears o'er that tomb,

For there are angels weeping;

Mourn not him whose doom

Heaven itself is mourning.

Look how in sable gloom

The clouds are earthward yearning;

And earth receives them home,

Even darker clouds returning.

Is it when good men die

That sorrow wakes above?

Grieve Saints when other spirits fly

To swell their choir of love?

Ah! no: with louder sound

The golden harp strings quiver

When good men gain the happy ground

Where they must dwell for ever.

But he who slumbers there

His bark will strive no more

Across the waters of despair

To reach that glorious shore.

The time of grace is past,

And mercy, scorned and tried,

Forsakes to utter wrath at last

The soul so steeled by pride.