How shall I bear the pictures that will glow
Above the glowing billows as they heave?
One picture fades, and now above the spray
Another shines: ah, do I know the bowers
Where yon sweet woman stands--the woodland flowers,
In that bright wreath of grass and new-mown hay--
That birthday wreath I wove when earthly hours
Wore angel-wings,--till portents brought dismay?
Shall I turn coward here who sailed with Death
Through many a tempest on mine own North Sea,
And quail like him of old who bowed the knee--
Faithless--to billows of Genesereth?
Did I turn coward when my very breath
Froze on my lips that Alpine night when He
Stood glimmering there, the Skeleton, with me,
While avalanches rolled from peaks beneath?
Each billow bears me nearer to the verge
Of realms where she is not--where love must wait.
If Gelert, there, could hear, no need to urge
That friend, so faithful, true, affectionate,
To come and help me, or to share my fate.
Ah! surely I see him springing through the surge.
[_The dog, plunging into the tide and striking
towards his master with immense strength,
reaches him and swims round him.
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