LVIII.

Brief rest! upon the turning billow’s height A strange sweet moment of some heavenly strain, Floating between the savage gusts of night, That sweep the seas to foam! Soon dark again The hour--the scene; th’ intensely present rush’d Back on her spirit, and her large tears gush’d Like blood-drops from a victim--with swift rain Bathing the bosom where she lean’d that hour, As if her life would melt into th’ o’erswelling shower.