Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/389

Rh Perhaps this is the destined hour

When Hell shall lose its fatal power,

And Heaven itself shall bend above

To hail the soul redeemed by love.

Unmarked I gazed, my idle thought

Passed with the ray whose shine it caught ;

One glance revealed how little care

He felt for all the beauty there.

Oh ! crime can make the heart grow old

Sooner than years of wearing woe,

Can turn the warmest bosom cold

As winter wind or polar snow.

Printed by T. and A., Printers to His Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press