THE WRECK.
35
For whenever a rougher gust might tumble a stormier wave,
'O Stephen,' I moan'd, 'I am coming to thee in thine Ocean-grave.'
And again, when a balmier breeze curl'd over a peacefuller sea,
I found myself moaning again 'O child, I am coming to thee.'
'O Stephen,' I moan'd, 'I am coming to thee in thine Ocean-grave.'
And again, when a balmier breeze curl'd over a peacefuller sea,
I found myself moaning again 'O child, I am coming to thee.'
XII.
The broad white brow of the Isle—that bay with the colour'd sand—
Rich was the rose of sunset there, as we drew to the land;
All so quiet the ripple would hardly blanch into spray
At the feet of the cliff; and I pray'd—'my child'—for I still could pray—
The broad white brow of the Isle—that bay with the colour'd sand—
Rich was the rose of sunset there, as we drew to the land;
All so quiet the ripple would hardly blanch into spray
At the feet of the cliff; and I pray'd—'my child'—for I still could pray—
