Look not reproach, though still they seem to weep;
It is that He my sacrifice hath bless’d,
And fill’d my bosom, through its inmost cell,
With a deep chastening sense that all at last is well.
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