LXV.

Yes! thou art now----Oh! wherefore doth the thought Of the wave dashing o’er thy long bright hair, The sea-weed into its dark tresses wrought, The sand thy pillow--thou that wert so fair! Come o’er me still! Earth, earth!--it is the hold Earth ever keeps on that of earthly mould! But thou art breathing now in purer air, I well believe, and freed from all of error, Which blighted here the root of thy sweet life with terror.