 | Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven |  |
XI.
The verge, the verge, is near. Must such a state,Seraph, be thine? No! sank the spar within;
But the shrill warning reached him through the din
Of waves. Back, back, he struggles, ere too late;
And the whole horror of the avoided fate
Shot through his soul. The wages of his sin
He felt, for once, were light, and clasped his shrieking mate;
| Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven | |