"If you could view the heavenly shore,
Where heart's content you hope to find,
You would not murmur were you gone before,
But grieve that you are left behind."
CHAPTER XVI.
CONNIE'S WATCH-TOWER.
As I walked home, the rush of the rising tide was in my ears. To my fancy,
the ocean, awaking from a swoon in which its life had ebbed to its heart,
was sending that life abroad to its extremities, and waves breaking in
white were the beats of its reviving pulse, the flashes of returning light.
But so gentle was its motion, and so lovely its hue, that I could not help
contrasting it with its reflex in the mind of her who took refuge from the
tumult of its noises in the hollow of the old church. To her, let it look
as blue as the sky, as peaceful and as moveless, it was a wild, reckless,
false, devouring creature, a prey to its own moods, and to that of the
blind winds which, careless of consequences, urged it to raving fury. Only,
while the sea took this form to her imagination, she believed in that which
held the sea, and knew that, when it pleased God to part his confining
fingers, there would he no more sea.
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