Nor calm that wild heart unto death.
And grand enough for Milton are the concluding lines:
Oh, cold, cold wave, that pressed her cheek,
I hear thy murmuring undertone.
For ages wilt thou sob and moan,
In vain repentance o’er thy deed:
The howling winds shall lash thy breast,
And zephyrs mourn around thy shore,
And murmur all thy rocks along;
And thou, who stilled the voice of song,