Pain trembled in his weary limbs,
   Pain filled his patient eye,
Pain-crushed amid the shadowy fern
   His branchy crown did lie.

Where were his comrades? where his mate? 
   All from his death-bed gone! 
And he, thus struck and desolate,
   Suffered and bled alone.

Did he feel what a man might feel,
   Friend-left, and sore distrest? 
Did Pain’s keen dart, and Grief’s sharp sting
   Strive in his mangled breast?

Did longing for affection lost
   Barb every deadly dart;
Love unrepaid, and Faith betrayed,
   Did these torment his heart?

No! leave to man his proper doom! 
   These are the pangs that rise
Around the bed of state and gloom,
   Where Adam’s offspring dies!

CHAPTER VI

This is perhaps a fitting time to give some personal description of Miss Bronte.  In 1831, she was a quiet, thoughtful girl, of nearly fifteen years of age, very small in figure—­“stunted” was the word she applied to herself,—­but as her limbs and head were in just proportion to the slight, fragile body, no word in ever so slight a degree suggestive of deformity could properly be applied to her; with soft, thick, brown hair, and peculiar eyes, of which I find it difficult to give a description, as they appeared to me in her later life.  They were large and well shaped; their colour a reddish brown; but if the iris was closely examined, it appeared to be composed of a great variety of tints.  The usual expression was of quiet, listening intelligence; but now and then, on some just occasion for vivid interest or wholesome indignation, a light would shine out, as if some spiritual lamp had been kindled, which glowed behind those expressive orbs.  I never saw the like in any other human creature.  As for the rest of her features, they were plain, large, and ill set; but, unless you began to catalogue them, you were hardly aware of the fact, for the eyes and power of the countenance over-balanced every physical defect; the crooked mouth and the large nose were forgotten, and the whole face arrested the attention, and presently attracted all those whom she herself would have cared to attract.  Her hands and feet were the smallest I ever saw; when one of the former was placed in mine, it was like the soft touch of a bird in the middle of my palm.  The delicate long fingers had a peculiar fineness of sensation, which was one reason why all her handiwork, of whatever kind—­writing, sewing, knitting—­was so clear in its minuteness.  She was remarkably neat in her whole personal attire; but she was dainty as to the fit of her shoes and gloves.