d his head upon his arm,
And veiled from view his basilisk charm.

That, I take it, is Zamorna, that Byronic hero, again; but it is also
uncommonly like Heathcliff, with "his basilisk eyes". And it is dated
July 1839, seven years before _Wuthering Heights_ was written.

The other crucial instance is a nameless poem to the Earth.

I see around me piteous tombstones grey
Stretching their shadows far away.
Beneath the turf my footsteps tread
Lie low and lone the silent dead;
Beneath the turf, beneath the mould,
For ever dark, for ever cold.
And my eyes cannot hold the tears
That memory hoards from vanished years.
For Time and Death and mortal pain
Give wounds that will not heal again.
Let me remember half the woe
I've seen and heard and felt below,
And heaven itself, so pure and blest,
Could never give my spirit rest.
Sweet land of light! Thy children fair
Know nought akin to our despair;
Nor have they felt, nor can they tell
What tenants haunt each mortal cell,
What gloomy guests we hold within,
Torments and madness, fear and sin!
Well, may they live in ecstasy
Their long eternity of joy;
At least we would not bring them down
With us to weep, with us to groan.
No, Earth would wish no other sphere
To taste her cup of suffering drear;
She turns from heaven a tearless eye
And only mourns that _we_ must die!
Ah mother! what shall comfort thee
In all this boundless misery?
To cheer our eager eyes awhile,
We see thee smile, how fondly smile!
But who reads not through the tender glow
Thy deep, unutterable woe?
Indeed no darling hand above
Can cheat thee of thy children's love.
We all, in life's departing shine,
Our last dear longings blend with thine,
And struggle still, and strive to trace
With clouded gaze thy darling face.
We would not leave our nature home
For _any_ world beyond the tomb.
No, mother, on thy kindly breast
Let us be laid in lasting rest,
Or waken but to share with thee
A mutual immortality.

There is the whole spirit of _Wuthering Heights_; the spirit of
Catherine Earnshaw's dream; the spirit that in the last page broods over
the moorland graveyard. It is instinct with a more than pagan adoration
of the tragic earth, adored because of her tragedy.

It would be dangerous to assert positively that "Remembrance" belongs to
the same song-cycle; but it undoubtedly belongs to the same cycle, or
rat