 | Poetical sketches |  |
Oh Ella sweet, how throbs thine heart!
How to thy cheek the blushes start,
As eager plunging through the wave,
Thy Edmund hastes—to die, or save!
And thrill'd not then with purest glow
(Cold though it seem'd) thy breast of snow:
As conscious, 'midst it's direst fear,
Life saved by him were doubly dear!
Blest recompence for past alarms,
He folds thee in his straining arms:
No longer doom'd repulse to meet,
Feels thy fond heart's responsive beat:
Encounters still thy melting glance,
Hangs on thy speaking countenance;
And thanks the storm that chased his doubt,
And wrung the tardy secret out.
How to thy cheek the blushes start,
As eager plunging through the wave,
Thy Edmund hastes—to die, or save!
102
(Cold though it seem'd) thy breast of snow:
As conscious, 'midst it's direst fear,
Life saved by him were doubly dear!
Blest recompence for past alarms,
He folds thee in his straining arms:
No longer doom'd repulse to meet,
Feels thy fond heart's responsive beat:
Encounters still thy melting glance,
Hangs on thy speaking countenance;
And thanks the storm that chased his doubt,
And wrung the tardy secret out.
| Poetical sketches | |