Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep
And savage war-note from us, wafting it
O’er the far hills.
Gon. Alas! this woe must be!
I do not shake my spirit from its height,
So startling it with hope! But the dread hour
Shall be met bravely still. I can keep down
Yet for a little while—and heaven will ask
No more—the passionate workings of my heart
—And thine, Elmina?