The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë, Rosina

XLVII

ROSINA

Weeks of wild delirium past,
Weeks of fevered pain;
Rest from suffering comes at last;
Reason dawns again.

It was a pleasant April day
Declining to the afternoon;
Sunshine upon her pillow lay
As warm as middle June.

It told her unconsciously
Early spring had hurried by;
'Ah! Time has not delayed for me,'
She murmured with a sigh.

'Angora's hills have heard their tread,
The crimson flag is planted there;
Eldenna's waves are rolling red,
While I lie fettered here!

'Nay, rather, Gondal's shaken throne
Is now secure and free;
And my king Julius reigns alone
Debtless, alas! to me.'

Loud was the sudden gust of woe
From those who watch around;
Rosina turned and sought to know
Why burst that boding sound.

'What then, my dreams are false,' she said,
Come, maidens, answer me;
Has Almadore in battle bled!
Have slaves subdued the free?

'I know it all; he could not bear
To leave me dying far away;
He fondly, madly lingered here
And we have lost the day!

But check those coward sobs, and bring
My robes, and smooth my tangled hair;
A noble victory you shall sing
For every hour's despair!

'When will he come? 'Twill soon be night;
We'll come when evening falls;
Oh! I shall weary for the light
To leave my lonely halls!'

She turned her pallid face aside,
As she would seek repose;
But dark Ambition's thwarted pride
Forbade her lips to close.

And still on all who waited by
Oppressive mystery hung;
And swollen with grief was every eye,
And chained was every tongue.

They whispered nought, but, ' Lady, sleep,
Dear lady, slumber now!
Had we not bitter cause to weep
While you were laid so low?

'And hope can hardly deck the cheek
With sudden signs of cheer,
When it has worn through many a week
The sting of anguish drear.'

Fierce grew Rosina's gloomy gaze;
She cried, 'Dissembler, own
Erina's arms in victory blaze,
Brenzaida's crest is down.'

'Well, since it must be told, Lady,
Brenzaida's crest is down;
Brenzaida's sun is set, Lady,
His empire overthrown!

'He died beneath his palace dome,
True heart on every side;
Among his guards, within his home
Our glorious monarch died.

'I saw him fall, I saw the gore
From his heart's fountain swell,
And mingling on the marble floor
His murderer's life-blood fell.

'And now, 'mid northern mountains lone
His desert grave is made;
And, Lady, of your love alone
Remains a mortal shade!'

September 1, 1841.

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