22. 
Its keel has struck the sands beside our feet;—­
Then Cythna turned to me, and from her eyes 4640
Which swam with unshed tears, a look more sweet
Than happy love, a wild and glad surprise,
Glanced as she spake:  ’Ay, this is Paradise
And not a dream, and we are all united! 
Lo, that is mine own child, who in the guise 4645
Of madness came, like day to one benighted
In lonesome woods:  my heart is now too well requited!’

23. 
And then she wept aloud, and in her arms
Clasped that bright Shape, less marvellously fair
Than her own human hues and living charms; 4650
Which, as she leaned in passion’s silence there,
Breathed warmth on the cold bosom of the air,
Which seemed to blush and tremble with delight;
The glossy darkness of her streaming hair
Fell o’er that snowy child, and wrapped from sight 4655
The fond and long embrace which did their hearts unite.

24. 
Then the bright child, the plumed Seraph came,
And fixed its blue and beaming eyes on mine,
And said, ’I was disturbed by tremulous shame
When once we met, yet knew that I was thine 4660
From the same hour in which thy lips divine
Kindled a clinging dream within my brain,
Which ever waked when I might sleep, to twine
Thine image with HER memory dear—­again
We meet; exempted now from mortal fear or pain. 4665

25. 
’When the consuming flames had wrapped ye round,
The hope which I had cherished went away;
I fell in agony on the senseless ground,
And hid mine eyes in dust, and far astray
My mind was gone, when bright, like dawning day, 4670
The Spectre of the Plague before me flew,
And breathed upon my lips, and seemed to say,
“They wait for thee, beloved!”—­then I knew
The death-mark on my breast, and became calm anew.

26. 
’It was the calm of love—­for I was dying. 4675
I saw the black and half-extinguished pyre
In its own gray and shrunken ashes lying;
The pitchy smoke of the departed fire
Still hung in many a hollow dome and spire
Above the towers, like night,—­beneath whose shade 4680
Awed by the ending of their own desire
The armies stood; a vacancy was made
In expectation’s depth, and so they stood dismayed.

27. 
’The frightful silence of that altered mood,
The tortures of the dying clove alone, 4685
Till one uprose among the multitude,
And said—­“The flood of time is rolling on;
We stand upon its brink, whilst THEY are gone
To glide in peace down death’s mysterious stream. 
Have ye done well?  They moulder, flesh and bone, 4690
Who might have made this life’s envenomed dream
A sweeter draught than ye will ever taste, I deem.