"
The moving music of his words sank deep
Her alter'd heart thrill'd high to holy thoughts.
"Be thou my guide," she said. "My duty now
Shall bring me peace; so shall I toil like thee
To win the love I yearn for in the end."
It might not be. The treach'rous, working sand
Already clutched their feet, and check'd their speed;
And dancing, sparkling, like a joyful thing,
A glitt'ring, glassy wall of foam-fleck'd wave
Towards them glided with that fatal speed
You cannot mark because it is so swift.
No use to struggle now: no time to fly!
He clasp'd her to him: "God hath will'd it thus.
Courage, my sister!" "Is this death?" she cried.
"Yes, this is death." "It is not death, but joy!"
And as she spoke the spot where they were seen
Became a wat'ry waste of battling waves:
While high above the summer sun shone on--
A passing seabird hoarsely shriek'd along!
All things were changed, with that vast change which makes
It seem as tho' nought else had ever been.
"Well done, Ideala!" said Ralph, patronisingly; "you certainly have a
memory, and are quite as good at patchwork as the author of 'Delysle.
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