'I should like extremely to have an hour's sitting with you, and, if I had the chance, I would promise to try not to look gloomy. You said you would be at Haworth ere long, but that "ere" has doubtless changed to "ne'er;" so I must wish to get to Halifax some time to see you.
'I saw Murray's monument praised in the papers, and I trust you are getting on well with Beckwith's, as well as with your own personal statue of living flesh and blood.
'Mine, like your Theseus, has lost its hands and feet, and I fear its head also, for it can neither move, write, nor think as it once could.
'I hope I shall hear from you on John Brown's return from Halifax, whither he has gone.
'These winds, these clouds, this chill November storm Bring back again thy tempest-beaten form To eyes that look upon yon dreary sky As late they looked on thy sublimity; When I, more troubled than thy restless sea, Found, in its waves, companionship with thee. 'Mid mists thou frownedst over Arvon's shore, 'Mid tears I watched thee over ocean's roar, And thy blue front, by thousand storms laid bare, Claimed kindred with a heart worn down by care. No smile had'st thou, o'er smiling fields aspiring, And none had I, from smiling fields retiring; Blackness, 'mid sunlight, tinged thy slaty brow, I, 'mid sweet music, looked as dark as thou; Old Scotland's song, o'er murmuring surges borne, Of "times departed,--never to return," Was echoed back in mournful tones from thee, And found an echo, quite as sad, in me; Waves, clouds, and shadows moved in restless change, Around, above, and on thy rocky range, But seldom saw that sovereign front of thine Changes more quick than those which passed o'er mine. And as wild winds and human hands, at length, Have turned to scattered stones the mighty strength Of that old fort, whose belt of boulders grey Roman or Saxon legions held at bay; So had, methought, the young, unshaken nerve-- That, when WILL wished, no doubt could cause to swerve, That on its vigour ever placed reliance, That to its sorrows sometimes bade defiance-- Now left my spirit, like thyself, old hill, With head defenceless against human ill; And, as thou long hast looked upon the wave That takes, but gives not, like a churchyard grave, I, like life's course, through ether's weary range, Never know rest from ceaseless strife and change.