'But--when all at eve, together, Circle round the flickering light, While December's howling weather Ushers in a stormy night: When each ear, scarce conscious, listens To the outside Winter's war, When each trembling eyelash glistens As each thinks of _one_ afar-- Man to chilly silence dying, Ceases story, song, and smile; Thought asks--"Is the loved one lying Cold upon some storm-beat isle?" And with death--when doubtings vanish, When despair still hopes and fears-- Though our anguish toil may banish, Rest brings unavailing tears. 'So, Old England--when the warning Of thy funeral bells I hear-- Though thy dead a host is mourning, Friends and kindred watch each bier. But alas! Atlantic waters Bear another sound from far! Unknown woes, uncounted slaughters, Cruel deaths, inglorious war! 'Breasts and banners, crushed and gory, That seemed once invincible; England's children--England's glory, Moslem sabres smite and quell! Far away their bones are wasting, But I hear their spirits call-- "Is our Mighty Mother hasting To avenge her children's fall?" 'England rise! Thine ancient thunder Humbled mightier foes than these; Broke a whole world's bonds asunder, Gave thee empire o'er the seas: And while yet one rose may blossom, Emblem of thy former bloom, Let not age invade thy bosom-- Brightest shine in darkest gloom! 'While one oak thy homes shall shadow, Stand like it as thou hast stood; While a Spring greets grove and meadow, Let not Winter freeze thy blood. Till this hour St. George's standard Led the advancing march of time; England! keep it streaming vanward, Conqueror over age and clime!' In this poem Branwell prefaces his subject with a picture of domestic suffering--one with which he is familiar--and compares the consolation which accompanies the affectionate attentions of those present, with the hopeless fate and untended deaths of such as perish in the storms and wars of distant places, far away from their homes and friends. In the true, loyal, and national spirit which animates him, his manly appeal to England, comprised principally in the last two verses, is perhaps one of the noblest and most vigorous ever written. In the May of 1842, Leyland was commissioned to execute certain monuments for Haworth and its neighbourhood; and, on the 15th of that month, Branwell wrote to him, in reference to a design for a monument which he had sent for submission to a committee of which the Rev. P. Brontë was chairman, and invited him to the parsonage on the 20th of the month, being sure his father would be pleased to see him. Leyland visited Haworth and partook of Mr. Brontë's hospitality; and in the evening, accompanied by the incumbent and his son, appeared before the monument committee.