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.