Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. IV. The Nineteenth Century: Wordsworth to Rossetti
Emily Brontë (18181848)A Death-Scene
‘O D
When thou so fair art shining!
O Sun, in such a glorious sky,
So tranquilly declining;
While fresh west winds are blowing,
And all around his youthful brow
Thy cheerful light is glowing!
The golden evening gleams
Warm and bright on Arden’s lake—
Arouse thee from thy dreams!
My dearest friend, I pray
That thou, to cross the eternal sea,
Wouldst yet one hour delay:
I see them foaming high;
But no glimpse of a further shore
Has blest my straining eye.
Of Eden isles beyond;
Turn back, from that tempestuous surge,
To thy own native land.
That struggles in thy breast—
Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again;
I cannot let thee rest!’
For the woe I could not bear—
One mute look of suffering moved me
To repent my useless prayer:
Of distraction passed away;
Not a sign of further grieving
Stirred my soul that awful day.
Sunk to peace the twilight breeze:
Summer dews fell softly, wetting
Glen, and glade, and silent trees.
Weighed beneath a mortal sleep;
And their orbs grew strangely dreary,
Clouded, even as they would weep.
Never moved, and never closed;
Troubled still, and still they ranged not—
Wandered not, nor yet reposed!
Stooped, and raised his languid head;
Felt no breath, and heard no sighing,
So I knew that he was dead.