The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Thy sun is near meridian height
XLI
Thy sun is near meridian height,
And my sun sinks in endless night;
But if that night bring only sleep,
Then I shall rest, while thou wilt weep.
And say not that my early tomb
Will give me to a darker doom;
Shall these long agonising years
Be punished by eternal tears?
No: that I feel can never be;
A God of hate could hardly bear
To watch through all eternity,
His own creation's dread despair!
The pangs that wring my mortal breast,
Must claim from Justice lasting rest;
Enough, that this departing breath
Will pass in anguish worse than death.
If I have sinned; long, long ago
That sin was purified by woe.
I have suffered on thro' night and day;
I've trod a dark and frightful way.
Earth's wilderness was round me spread,
Heaven's tempests beat my naked head;
I did not kneel; in vain would prayer
Have sought one gleam of mercy there!
How could I ask for pitying love,
When that grim concave frowned above,
Hoarding its lightnings to destroy
My only and my priceless joy?
They struck—and long may Eden shine
Ere I would call its glories mine;
All Heaven's undreamt felicity
Could never blot the past from me.
No! Years may cloud and death may sever,
But what is done, is done for ever.
And thou false friend and treacherous guide
Go sate thy cruel heart with pride.
Go, load my memory with shame;
Speak but to curse my hated name;
My tortured limbs in dungeons bind,
And spare my life to kill my mind.
Leave me in chains and darkness now,
And when my very soul is worn,
When reason's light has left my brow,
And madness cannot feel thy scorn,
Then come again; thou wilt not shrink—
I know thy soul is free from fear—
The last full cup of triumph drink,
Before the blank of death be there.
The raving, dying victim see,
Lost, cursed, degraded all for thee!
Gaze on the wretch—recall to mind
His golden days left long behind.
Does Memory sleep in Lethean rest?
Or wakes its whisper in thy breast?
O Memory wake! Let scenes return,
That e'en her haughty heart must mourn!
Reveal; where o'er a lone green wood
The moon of summer pours
Far down from heaven its silver flood
On deep Eldenna's shores;
There, lingering in the wild embrace
Youth's warm affections gave,
She sits and fondly seems to trace
His features in the wave.
And while on that reflected face
Her eyes intently dwell;
'Fernando, sing to-night,' she says,
'The lays I love so well.'
He smiles and sings, through every air
Betrays the faith of yesterday;
His soul is glad to cast for her
Virtue and faith and Heaven away.
Well, thou hast paid me back my love!
But, if there be a God above,
Whose arm is strong, whose word is true,
This hell shall wring thy spirit too!
January 6, 1840.