'My mind anticipated all The things my eyes have seen since then; I heard the trumpet's battle-call, I rode o'er ranks of bleeding men, I swept the waves of Norway's main, I tracked the sands of Syria's shore, I felt that such strange strife and pain Might me from living death restore. 'Ambition I would make my bride, And joy to see her robed in red, For none through blood so wildly ride As those whose hearts before have bled; Yes, even though _thou_ should'st long have laid Pressed coldly down by churchyard clay, And though I knew thee thus decayed, I _might_ smile grimly when away; 'Might give an opiate to my breast, Might dream:--but oh! that heart-wrung groan Forced from me with the thought confessed That all would go if _she_ were gone; I turned, and wept, and wandered on All restlessly--from room to room-- To that still chamber, where alone A sick-light glimmered through the gloom. 'The all-unnoticed time flew o'er me, While my breast bent above her bed, And that drear life which loomed before me Choked up my voice--bowed down my head. Sweet holy words to me she said, Of that bright heaven which shone so near, And oft and fervently she prayed That I might some time meet her there; 'But, soon enough, all words were over, When this world passed, and Paradise, Through deadly darkness, seemed to hover O'er her half-dull, half-brightening eyes; One last dear glance she gives her lover, One last embrace before she dies; And then, while he seems bowed above her, His _Mary_ sees him from the skies.' Another poem of Branwell's of this date, the last he ever wrote, is entitled 'Percy Hall,' which he did not live to complete. The first draft was sent for Leyland's opinion, with the following letter: 'Haworth, Bradford, 'Yorks. 'MY DEAR SIR, 'I enclose the accompanying fragment, which is so soiled that I would have transcribed it, if I had had the heart to exert myself, only in order to get from you an opinion as to whether, when finished, it would be worth sending to some respectable periodical, like "Blackwood's Magazine." 'I trust you got safely home from rough Haworth, and am, 'Dear Sir, 'Your most sincerely, 'P. B. BRONTË.'