Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/97

Rh Without your chamber door I stand;

Love, are you slumbering still?

My cold heart, underneath my hand,

Has almost ceased to thrill.

Bleak, bleak the east wind sobs and sighs,

And drowns the turret bell,

Whose sad note, undistinguished, dies

Unheard, like my farewell!

To-morrow, Scorn will blight my name,

And Hate will trample me,

Will load me with a coward's shame—

A traitor's perjury.

False friends will launch their covert sneers;

True friends will wish me dead;

And I shall cause the bitterest tears

That you have ever shed.

The dark deeds of my outlawed race

Will then like virtues shine;

And men will pardon their disgrace,

Beside the guilt of mine.

For, who forgives the accursed crime

Of dastard treachery?

Rebellion, in its chosen time,

May Freedom's champion be;