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Updated: May 12, 2025
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!"
Down deep within its hold Will there be bags of gold, Or sparkling gems untold, All, all for me? Now my heart cries to thee; Bring not from o'er the sea Bright glitt'ring gems for me, nor bags of gold. I'd rather have a heart, Mine from all else apart, From him I'd never part, Love's more than gold." Little Sprite Seaford had learned the song in her home by the sea.
"Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast, When husbands or when lapdogs breathe their last, Or when rich china vessels fall'n from high In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie!"
V. To thy unspotted shrine I bow: Attend thy modest suppliant's vow, That breathes no wild desires; But, taught by thy unerring rules, To shun the fruitless wish of fools, To nobler views aspires. VI. Not Fortune's gem, Ambition's plume, Nor Cytherea's fading bloom, Be objects of my prayer: Let av'rice, vanity, and pride, Those envy'd glitt'ring toys divide, The dull rewards of care.
'While o'er the deep in many a dreadful form, The giant Danger howls along the storm, Furling the iron sails with numbed hands, Firm on the deck the great Adventurer stands; Round glitt'ring mountains hear the billows rave, And the vast ruin thunder on the wave. In the Gent.
Look there, 'tis spread, Venture a little further, thou art dead. Is there not room enough in all the field For thee to play in, but thou needs must yield To the deceitful glitt'ring of a glass, Plac'd betwixt nets, to bring thy death to pass?
"I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you, For morn is approaching your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew." I paused, recollecting myself, struck with the ridicule of repeating verses, and of indulging feelings in which no one perhaps sympathized. "Those are beautiful lines," said Leonora: "that poem has always been a favourite of mine."
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