And the rest rubb'd their eyes and saw a bay,
Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for

shore ;

For shore it was, and gradually grew

Distinct, and high, and palpable to view.

And then of these some part burst into tears,
And others, looking with a stupid stare,
Could not yet separate their hopes from fears,
And seem'd as if they had no further care;
While a few pray'd-(the first time for some
years)-

And at the bottom of the boat three were

Asleep they shook them by the hand and head, And tried to awaken them, but found them dead.

THE high moon sails upon her beauteous way,
Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls
Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces,
Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts,
Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles,
Like altars ranged along the broad canal,
Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed
Rear'd up
from out the waters, scarce less strangely
Than those more massy and mysterious giants
Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics,

Which point in Egypt's plains to times that have
No other record. All is gentle nought

Stirs rudely; but, congenial with the night,
Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit.
The tinklings of some vigilant guitars

14

MARINO FALIERO.

Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress,
And cautious opening of the casement, showing
That he is not unheard; while her young hand,
Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part,
So delicately white, it trembles in

The act of opening the forbidden lattice,
To let in love through music, makes his heart
Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight; the dash
Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle
Of the far lights of skimming gondolas,
And the responsive voices of the choir

Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse;
Some dusky shadow checkering the Rialto,
Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire,
Are all the sights and sounds which here prevade
The ocean-born and earth-commanding city.

Lord Byron.

THE ISLAND.

HERE, in the grotto of the wave-worn shore,
They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er;
Nor long the hours-they never paused o'er time,
Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime,
Which deals the daily pittance of our span,
And points and mocks with iron laugh at man.
What deem'd they of the future or the past?
The present, like a tyrant, held them fast:
Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide,
Like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide;
Their clock the sun, in his unbounded tow'r ;

They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour;

The nightingale, their only vesper-bell,

Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell;

16

THE ISLAND.

The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep, As in the north he mellows o'er the deep;

But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left

The world for ever, earth of light bereft,
Plunged with red forehead down along the wave,
As dives a hero headlong to his grave.

Then rose they, looking first along the skies,
And then for light into each other's eyes,
Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun,
And asking if indeed the day were done.
And let not this seem strange: the devotee
Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy :

Around him days and worlds are heedless driven,
His soul is gone before his dust to heaven.
Is love less potent? No-his path is trod,
Alike uplifted gloriously to God;

Or link'd to all we know of heaven below,
The other better self, whose joy or woe
Is more than ours; the all-absorbing flame
Which, kindled by another, grows the same,
Wrapt in one blaze; the pure, yet funeral pile
Where gentle hearts, like Bramins sit and smile.
How often we forget all time, when lone,
Admiring Nature's universal throne,

Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense
Reply of hers to our intelligence!