We were yet strangers at the time, One hour alone had each the other seen, Yet something urged us both to speak— To speak, anon, from heart’s great deeps. To speak of all we held of worth, All that had led us to the spot, All the fair gifts of happy fate, And the untoward accidents of life; Of distant home, of fatherland, Of the full days of beauty’s quest. Hand clasped in hand we told our joy: Need I recall it from the mist? In fine of thy dear love thou told’st And sacred silence fell on thee. On moved the barque with leisured pace Across the deeper silence of the bay. Behind us vanished Posilippo And Baja’s gulf and Cape Miseno. As Procida passed slowly by The gentle dawn stole o’er the night, And Epomeo’s head was lit, With the first rays of new-born sun, And Ischia, nobler than our dreams, Uprose before our wondering eyes. Above, mantled in its own loveliness, Calling us sweetly from the bay Up to its gentle, vine-clothed heights, Sat radiant Casamicciola. How thou and I the glad days spent Thou knowest well. And now? Now all is ruin and decay, A ghastly tomb. We’ll let it rest. Think rather of the linkèd lives We spent, and the whole joy of earth, That never more will gladden us While sun and stars gleam overhead. What was it opened then our hearts? What was it forged the golden chain? It was—thou know’st it well, comrade— The sailing on that magic night.”