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.