Stand motionless upon the moving foam,

To be the exile's wave-encircled home,

And lull her pains with leaves in drowsy motion,

Where the soft-boughed olive sighing

Bends above the woman lying

And in spasms of anguish crying,

Shuddering through her mortal frame,

As from dust is struck the flame

Which shall henceforth beam sublime

Through the firmament of Time?

Oh, balmy Island bedded on the brine,

Harbour of refuge on the tumbling seas,

[51]

The fabulous bowers of the Hesperides

Ne'er bore such blooming gold as glows in thine:

Thou green Oasis on the tides of Time

Where no rude blast disturbs the azure clime;

Thou Paradise whence man can ne'er be driven,

Where, severed from the world-clang and the roar,

Still in the flesh he yet may reach that shore

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