of a wave?

I protest, George, you shall not venture out again--no, not by
daylight--without a sufficient pair of spectacles--in your musing
moods especially. Your absence of mind we have borne, till your
presence of body came to be called in question by it. You shall not go
wandering into Euripus with Aristotle, if we can help it. Fie, man,
to turn dipper at your years' after your many tracts in favour of
sprinkling only!

I have nothing but water in my head o' nights since this frightful
accident. Sometimes I am with Clarence in his dream. At others, I
behold Christian beginning to sink, and crying out to his good brother
Hopeful (that is to me), "I sink in deep waters; the billows go over
my head, all the waves go over me. Selah." Then I have before me
Palinurus, just letting go the steerage. I cry out too late to save.
Next follow--a mournful procession--_suicidal faces_, saved against
their wills from drowning; dolefully trailing a length of reluctant
gratefulness, with ropy weeds pendant from locks of watchet
hue-constrained Lazari--Pluto's half-subjects--stolen fees from the
grave-bilking Charon of his fare. At their head Arion--or is it
G.D.?--in his singing garments marcheth singly, with harp in hand,
and votive garland, which Machaon (or Dr. Hawes) snatcheth straight,
intending to suspend it to the stern God of Sea. Then follow dismal
streams of Lethe, in which the half-drenched on earth are constrained
to drown downright, by wharfs where Ophelia twice acts her muddy
death.

And, doubtless, there is some notice in that invisible world, when one
of us approacheth (as my friend did so lately) to their inexorable
precincts. When a soul knocks once, twice, at death's door, the
sensation aroused within the palace must be considerable; and the grim
Feature, by modern science so often dispossessed of his prey, must
have learned by this time to pity Tantalus.

A pulse assuredly was felt along the line of the Elysian shades, when
the near arrival of G.D. was announced by no equivocal indications.
From their seats of Asphodel arose the gentler and the graver
ghosts-poet, or historian--of Grecian or of Roman lore--to crown with
unfading chaplets the half-finished love-labours of their unwearied
scholiast. Him Markland expected--him Tyrwhitt hoped to encounter--him
the sweet lyrist of Peter House, whom he had barely seen upon
earth[1], with newest airs prepared to greet ----; and, patron of
the gentle Christ's boy,-