The sails were furled; with many a melting close,
Solemn and slow the evening-anthem rose,
Rose to the Virgin. 'Twas the hour of day,
When setting suns o'er summer-seas display
A path of glory, opening in the west
To golden climes, and islands of the blest;
And human voices, on the silent air,
Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there!
Chosen of men! 'Twas thine, at noon of night,
First from the prow to hail the glimmering light:
(Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray
Enters the soul and makes the darkness day!)
"PEDRO RODRIGO! there, methought, it shone!
There in the west! and now, alas, 'tis gone!-
'Twas all a dream! we gaze and gaze in vain!
-But mark and speak not, there it comes again!
It moves!-what form unseen, what being there
With torch-like lustre fires the murky air?
His instincts, passions, say how like our own?
Oh! when will day reveal a world unknown?"
LONG on the wave the morning mists reposed,
Then broke-and, melting into light, disclosed
Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods.
Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods: