ETHEL CHURCHILL.
263
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.
Ah! sad it is to see the deck
Dismasted of some noble wreck;
And sad to see the marble stone
Defaced, and with gray moss o'ergrown;
And sad to see the broken lute
Forever to its music mute.
But what is lute, or fallen tower,
Or ship sunk in its proudest hour,
To awe and majesty combined
In their worst shape—the ruined mind?
The morning air waved to and fro the chintz curtains of a large and, for a London one, a very cheerful-looking room, whose windows opened to the Thames. It was high tide, and every wave seemed freighted with a separate sunbeam; the sails of the small boats, as they
