Fresh from the summer sea! There sleeps the main

Which once I crossed unwilling. Was it years since,

51

In some old vanished life, or yesterday?

When saw I last my father and the shores

Of Bosphorus? Was it days since, or years,

Tell me, thou fair enchantress, who hast wove

So strong a spell around me?

Gycia.

Nay, my lord;

Tell thou me first what magic 'tis hath turned

A woman who had scoffed so long at love

Until to-day—to-day, whose blessed night

Is hung so thick with stars—to feel as I,

That I have found the twin life which the gods

Retained when mine was fashioned, and must turn

To what so late was strange, as the flower turns

To the sun; ay, though he withers her, or clouds

Come 'twixt her and her light, turns still to him.

And only gazing lives.

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