XXXVII.

Yet, as if chasing joy, I woo’d the breeze To speed me onward with the wings of morn. Oh! far amidst the solitary seas, Which were not made for man, what man hath borne, Answering their moan with his!--what _thou_ didst bear, My lost and loveliest! while that secret care Grew terror, and thy gentle spirit, worn By its dull brooding weight, gave way at last, Beholding me as one from hope for ever cast!