And softly splash against the rocky shores,
Are dyed by richest, ever varying tints,
Like those, we fancy, tinge that sea that flows,
Around the throne of God, and, in whose billows,
The seraphs, as wing'd birds, embathe their breasts—
Whilst heaven becomes another sea like that—
And all is bright waves dashing o'er our hearts,
And making music sweeter than the songs
Of those we loved in youth, ere hatred grew.
That scene has pass'd. Imagination sleeps