Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/67

Rh 'Believe not what they urge

Of Eden isles beyond;

Turn back, from that tempestuous surge,

To thy own native land.

'It is not death, but pain

That struggles in thy breast—

Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again;

I cannot let thee rest!'

One long look, that sore reproved me

For the woe I could not bear—

One mute look of suffering moved me

To repent my useless prayer:

And, with sudden check, the heaving

Of distraction passed away;

Not a sign of further grieving

Stirred my soul that awful day.

Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting;

Sunk to peace the twilight breeze:

Summer dews fell softly, wetting

Glen, and glade, and silent trees.

Then his eyes began to weary,

Weighed beneath a mortal sleep;

And their orbs grew strangely dreary,

Clouded, even as they would weep.