Still Anna’s image swims before his sight In fleeting vision through the restless night; From clime to clime an exile doomed to roam, His heart still panted for its secret home. The moon had circled twice her wayward zone, To him since young Arion first was known; Who wandering here through many a scene renown’d, In Alexandria’s port the vessel found; Where, anxious to review his native shore, He on the roaring wave embarked once more. Oft by pale Cynthia’s melancholy light With him Palemon kept the watch of night, In whose sad bosom many a sigh supprest Some painful secret of the soul confest: Perhaps Arion soon the cause divin’d, Though shunning still to probe a wounded mind; He felt the chastity of silent woe, Though glad the balm of comfort to bestow. He with Palemon, oft recounted o’er } The tales of hapless love in ancient lore, } Recalled to memory by th’ adjacent shore: } The scene thus present, and its story known, The lover sighed for sorrows not his own. Thus, though a recent date their friendship bore, Soon the ripe metal own’d the quick’ning ore; For in one tide their passions seemed to roll, By kindred age and sympathy of soul. These o’er th’ inferior naval train preside, The course determine, or the commerce guide: O’er all the rest, an undistinguished crew, Her wing of deepest shade Oblivion drew. III. A sullen languor still the skies opprest, And held th’ unwilling ship in strong arrest: High in his chariot glowed the lamp of day, O’er Ida flaming with meridian ray; Relaxed from toil, the sailors range the shore, Where famine, war, and storm are felt no more; The hour to social pleasure they resign, And black remembrance drown in generous wine. On deck, beneath the shading canvass spread, Rodmond a rueful tale of wonders read Of dragons roaring on th’ enchanted coast; The hideous goblin and the yelling ghost: But with Arion, from the sultry heat Of noon, Palemon sought a cool retreat.— And lo! the shore with mournful prospects crown’d, The rampart torn with many a fatal wound, The ruined bulwark tottering o’er the strand, Bewail the stroke of war’s tremendous hand: What scenes of woe this hapless isle o’erspread! Where late thrice fifty thousand warriors bled. Full twice twelve summers were yon towers assailed, Till barbarous Ottoman at last prevailed; While thundering mines the lovely plains o’erturned, While heroes fell, and domes and temples burned. But now before them happier scenes arise, Elysian vales salute their ravished eyes; Olive, and cedar, formed a grateful shade, Where light, with gay romantic error, strayed: The myrtles here with fond caresses twine, There, rich with nectar, melts the pregnant vine: