But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain, The Queen of night asserts her silent reign.[227] No murky vapour, herald of the storm, Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form; With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play, There the white column greets her grateful ray, And bright around with quivering beams beset, Her emblem sparkles o'er the Minaret: The groves of olive scattered dark and wide Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide; 1210 The cypress saddening by the sacred Mosque, The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk;[228] And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye-- And dull were his that passed him heedless by. Again the Ægean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 1220 Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle, That frown--where gentler Ocean seems to smile. II. Not now my theme--why turn my thoughts to thee? Oh! who can look along thy native sea, Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, So much its magic must o'er all prevail? Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set, Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget? Not he--whose heart nor time nor distance frees, Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades! 1230 Nor seems this homage foreign to its strain, His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain--[229] Would that with freedom it were thine again! III. The Sun hath sunk--and, darker than the night, Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height Medora's heart--the third day's come and gone-- With it he comes not--sends not--faithless one! The wind was fair though light! and storms were none. Last eve Anselmo's bark returned, and yet His only tidings that they had not met! 1240 Though wild, as now, far different were the tale Had Conrad waited for that single sail. The night-breeze freshens--she that day had passed In watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast; Sadly she sate on high--Impatience bore At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, And there she wandered, heedless of the spray That dashed her garments oft, and warned away: She saw not, felt not this--nor dared depart, Nor deemed it cold--her chill was at her heart; 1250 Till grew such certainty from that suspense-- His very Sight had shocked from life or sense!