THE FLIGHT.
79
Tho' all about the shuddering wreck the death-white sea should rave,
Or if lip were laid to lip on the pillows of the wave.
Or if lip were laid to lip on the pillows of the wave.
XIII.
Shall I take him? I kneel with him? I swear and swear forsworn
To love him most, whom most I loathe, to honour whom I scorn?
The Fiend would yell, the grave would yawn, my mother's ghost would rise—
To lie, to lie—in God's own house—the blackest of all lies!
Shall I take him? I kneel with him? I swear and swear forsworn
To love him most, whom most I loathe, to honour whom I scorn?
The Fiend would yell, the grave would yawn, my mother's ghost would rise—
To lie, to lie—in God's own house—the blackest of all lies!
XIV.
Why—rather than that hand in mine, tho' every pulse would freeze,
Why—rather than that hand in mine, tho' every pulse would freeze,
