  Far in the south there is a jutting ledge Of rocks, scarce peering o’er the water’s edge, Where earliest come the fresh Atlantic gales, That in their course have filled a thousand sails, And brushed for leagues and leagues the Atlantic deep, Till now they make the nimble spirit leap Beneath their lifeful and renewing breath, And stir it like the ocean depths beneath. Two that were strangers to that sunny land, And to each other, met upon this strand; That when he willed, without the spirit’s strife, He might let go—a flower upon a ledge Of verdant meadow by a river’s edge, Which ever loosens with its treacherous flow In gradual lapse the moistened soil below; While to the last in beauty and in bloom That flower is scattering incense o’er its tomb, And with the dews upon it, and the breath Of the fresh morning round it, sinks to death. They met the following day, and many more They paced together this low ridge of shore, Till one fair eve, the other with intent To lure him out, unto his chamber went; But straight retired again with noiseless pace, For with a subtle gauze flung o’er his face Upon his bed he lay, serene and still And quiet, even as one who takes his fill So blest he seemed, the other could not choose To wake him, but went down the narrow stair; And when he met an aged attendant there, She ceased her work to tell him, when he said, Her patient then on happy slumber fed, But that anon he would return once more,— Her inmate had expired an hour before. ——— I know not by what chance he thus was thrown On a far shore, untended and alone, To live or die; for, as I after learned, There were in England many hearts that yearned To know his safety, and such tears were shed For him as grace the living and the dead. |
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