And all was gone--gone like a mist, Corse, billows, tempest, wreck;Three children close to Gilbert prest And clung around his neck.
Good night! good night! the prattlers said, And kissed their father's cheek;'Twas now the hour their quiet bed And placid rest to seek.
The mother with her offspring goes To hear their evening prayer;She nought of Gilbert's vision knows, And nought of his despair.
Yet, pitying God, abridge the time Of anguish, now his fate!
Though, haply, great has been his crime:
Thy mercy, too, is great.
Gilbert, at length, uplifts his head, Bent for some moments low, And there is neither grief nor dread Upon his subtle brow.
For well can he his feelings task, And well his looks command;His features well his heart can mask, With smiles and smoothness bland.
Gilbert has reasoned with his mind--
He says 'twas all a dream;He strives his inward sight to blind Against truth's inward beam.
He pitied not that shadowy thing, When it was flesh and blood;Nor now can pity's balmy spring Refresh his arid mood.
"And if that dream has spoken truth,"
Thus musingly he says;"If Elinor be dead, in sooth, Such chance the shock repays:
A net was woven round my feet, I scarce could further go;Ere shame had forced a fast retreat, Dishonour brought me low.
"Conceal her, then, deep, silent sea, Give her a secret grave!
She sleeps in peace, and I am free, No longer terror's slave:
And homage still, from all the world, Shall greet my spotless name, Since surges break and waves are curled Above its threatened shame."