Wearied, they flung themselves upon the shore,
    And, hand in hand, sat gazing on the sea
    With home-sick longing.  WOLE, the eager-eyed,
    From his far height espied them where they sat,
    And sent four of his people to their aid
    (Such power hath youth and beauty through the world!)
    Bearing a skiff, contrived of ribs of whales,
    For frame work,—­these, inwove with fibrous moss,
    And lined with furs of savage Arctic beasts
    Which he had slain.  When, with this welcome gift
    The slaves appeared, and bowed at OLIVE’s feet,
    The tears sprang to her eyes; her heart was touched
    By this rude warrior’s magnanimity. 
    They put to sea.  Scarce were they free from land,
    When, o’er the plain they saw OENE advance,
    Alone and melancholy, to the shore. 
    Her anger was subdued by greater grief;
    While something new and holier than sorrow
    Restrained revenge.  It was the Love Divine
    Which sacrifices self to others’ good. 
    Some word, Sir John had uttered when her wrath
    Would have consumed him, fell upon her heart
    Like rain on a thirsty garden—­there sprang up
    The amaranthine flower of charity
    Whose seed was dropped from heaven; the nameless pain,
    The want, which she had ever felt, was gone;
    She knew the immortal meaning of the Soul,
    And blessed the speaker for the ‘perfect work.’

    Speedily from her sight they floated out;
    But, long time, while gazing, they saw her stand
    In desolate beauty, silent on the beach. 
    The plaintive music of a horn wound down
    From WOLE’s grey fortress; all the fading scene
    Lay, like a sad thought in a musing breast
    Called up by the enchantment of sweet sound—­
    A thought, no more—­all,—­save those lustrous eyes
    Shining upon them like two troubled stars—­
    Vaguely receding into things that were: 
    While, high and low, in whispering melodies
    Borne by the uncertain winds, a farewell came:—­

      Oh, when for love we pine
        We sleep in bloomless bowers;
      But Life is a thing divine
        When the love we crave is ours. 
      Shut close your feathery wings
        Ye silvery birds of snow—­
      Across the ocean’s rippled rings
        Let no wild tempest blow;
      From valleys bleak and caverns hollow
      Let no rude spirit dare to follow.

      Oh, who hath drunk of love
        Will drink forevermore;
      While ever, the golden rim above,
        The draught will bubble o’er. 
      Let no fierce storm assail
        These lovers in their flight,
      But only a soft and steady gale
        Pursue them day and night;
      Nor jutting rock nor whirlpool hollow
      Can seize them while our wishes follow.