Why dost thou sorrow for the happy dead? For, if their life be lost, their toils are o'er, And woe and want can trouble them no more; Nor ever slept they in an earthly bed So sound as now they sleep, while dreamless laid In the dark chambers of the unknown shore, Where Night and Silence guard each sealed door. So, turn from such as these thy drooping head, And mourn the _Dead Alive_--whose spirit flies-- Whose life departs, before his death has come; Who knows no Heaven beneath Life's gloomy skies, Who sees no Hope to brighten up that gloom,-- 'Tis _He_ who feels the worm that never dies,-- The _real_ death and darkness of the tomb. It is painful to find the writer of these sad and beautiful sonnets spoken of in terms of reprobation, as being, at the time he wrote them, and when asking Mr. Grundy's aid while seeking a situation, 'sunk and contemptible.' 'Alas,' says Miss Robinson, 'no helping hand rescued the sinking wretch from the quicksands of idle sensuality which slowly engulfed him!'[39] Let us look further. [39] 'Emily Brontë,' p. 99. The Afghan War, which commenced in 1838, and had secured for the English arms what seemed at the time a complete conquest, was followed by the conspiracy of Akbar Khan, the son of Dost Mohammed, which occurred at the beginning of winter, when help from India was hopeless. There was an uprising at Cabul, and several officers and men were slain, which compelled Major Pottinger to submit to humiliating conditions. The British left Cabul; and the disastrous retreat to India, through the Khyber Pass, which commenced on January 6th, 1842, will long be sadly remembered. Of sixteen thousand troops--accompanied by women and children to the number of ten thousand more--who were continually harassed by hostile tribes on the way, and benumbed by the severity of the winter, only one man, Doctor Brydon, survived to tell the tidings. Branwell, overwhelmed by these horrors, published the following powerful and impressive poem in the 'Leeds Intelligencer,' on May the 7th of the same year. THE AFGHAN WAR. 'Winds within our chimney thunder, Rain-showers shake each window-pane, Still--if nought our household sunder-- We can smile at wind or rain. Sickness shades a loved one's chamber, Steps glide gently to and fro, Still--'mid woe--our hearts remember _We_ are there to soothe that woe. 'Comes at last the hour of mourning, Solemn tolls the funeral bell; And we feel that no returning Fate allows to such farewell: Still a holy hope shines o'er us; We wept by the One who died; And 'neath earth shall death restore us; As round hearthstone--side by side.