Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/89

Rh So, with a ready heart, I swore

To seek their altar-stone no more;

And gave my spirit to adore

Thee, ever-present, phantom thing—

My slave, my comrade, and my king.

A slave, because I rule thee still;

Incline thee to my changeful will,

And make thy influence good or ill:

A comrade, for by day and night

Thou art my intimate delight,—

My darling pain that wounds and sears,

And wrings a blessing out from tears

By deadening me to earthly cares;

And yet, a king, though Prudence well

Have taught thy subject to rebel.

And am I wrong to worship where

Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair,

Since my own soul can grant my prayer?

Speak, God of visions, plead for me,

And tell why I have chosen thee!