< Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu
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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
XXXIII
There swept adown that dreary glen
A wider sound than mountain wind—
The thrilling shouts of fighting men,
With something sadder far behind.
The thrilling shouts they died away
Before the night came greyly down,
But closed not with the closing day
The choking sob, the tortured moan.
Down in a hollow sunk in shade,
Where dark forms waved in secret gloom,
A ruined, bleeding form was laid,
Waiting the death that was to come.
November 1838.
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