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Woe, woe for those who wait the bannered host, And dream of sails and prate of sweet return! It skills not now that blushing love should yearn,Or spread the feast, or honeyed nectar pour: Full fair in heaven the sunset glories burn,Against a scarlet west the white sails soar,But from the prow no voice shall hail the rising shore.

XIX.Yet happy eyes are watching while the spray, Like filmy gossamer wavers in the air;Where drive the ships along their homeward way, As ever silently to land they fare. Jocund are throbbing hearts and debonairThe rippling laugh, the lightly lifted face: What soul the starless night of swift despair,Beyond such soft and lustrous eve could trace—Or, trembling, feel the doom whose terror comes apace?

XX.Idly the fleet lay rocking in the bay— None trimmed the mast or furled the silken sail;