III.
Oh! dark lower’d the clouds on that horrible eve,
And the moon dimly gleam’d through the tempested air;
Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive?
Oh! how could false hope rend a bosom so fair?
Thy love’s pallid corse the wild surges are laving,
O’er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving;
But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving,
In eternity’s bowers, a seat for thee there.
“How soft is that strain!” cried Nempere, as she concluded.