Through a rock-bound glen next they gurgling go.
’Neath caressing, whispering branches, low,
For a splashing romp, undisturbed by fear,
In a broad lake, billowy, deep and clear;
But they’re nearing, blindly, the crumbling edge
Of a ragged, cruel and treacherous ledge;
While those countless myriads are hurrying in,—
Crowding, racing, chasing from brim to brim:
Hark! With hands clasped over an aching breast,
A poor Soul moans, “Come to me, Love, and rest;