And now unloosing every sail—
We feel our vessel, like a steed
Gladdening to serve his rider’s need,
Dart out before the gale.
Slowly the thrill of feeling came
Along my Ila’s pallid frame;
I marked the rising crimson swell
Upon the cheek I loved too well,
And heard, how joyously! the sigh
Which told me that she could not die,