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AT SEA.

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Il Padrone. The wind upon our quarter lies,
And on before the freshening gale,
That fills the snow-white lateen sail,
Swiftly our light felucca flies. 
Around, the billows burst and foam;
They lift her o’er the sunken rock,
They beat her sides with many a shock,
And then upon their flowing dome
They poise her, like a weathercock! 
Between us and the western skies
The hills of Corsica arise;
Eastward, in yonder long, blue line,
The summits of the Apennine,
And southward, and still far away,
Salerno, on its sunny bay. 
You cannot see it, where it lies.

Prince Henry. Ah, would that never more mine eyes Might see its towers by night or day!

Elsie. Behind us, dark and awfully,
There comes a cloud out of the sea,
That bears the form of a hunted deer,
With hide of brown, and hoofs of black,
And antlers laid upon its back,
And fleeing fast and wild with fear,
As if the hounds were on its track!

Prince Henry. Lo! while we gaze, it breaks and falls
In shapeless masses, like the walls
Of a burnt city.  Broad and red
The fires of the descending sun
Glare through the windows, and o’erhead,
Athwart the vapors, dense and dun,
Long shafts of silvery light arise,
Like rafters that support the skies!

Elsie. See! from its summit the lurid levin
Flashes downward without warning,
As Lucifer, son of the morning,
Fell from the battlements of heaven!

Il Padrone. I must entreat you, friends, below! 
The angry storm begins to blow,
For the weather changes with the moon. 
All this morning, until noon,
We had baffling winds, and sudden flaws
Struck the sea with their cat’s-paws. 
Only a little hour ago
I was whistling to Saint Antonio
For a capful of wind to fill our sail,
And instead of a breeze he has sent a gale. 
Last night I saw St. Elmo’s stars,
With their glimmering lanterns, all at play
On the tops of the masts and the tips of the spars,
And I knew we should have foul weather to-day. 
Cheerily, my hearties! yo heave ho! 
Brail up the mainsail, and let her go
As the winds will and Saint Antonio!

Do you see that Livornese felucca,
That vessel to the windward yonder,
Running with her gunwale under? 
I was looking when the wind o’ertook her,
She had all sail set, and the only wonder
Is that at once the strength of the blast
Did not carry away her mast. 
She is a galley of the Gran Duca,
That, through the fear of the Algerines,
Convoys those lazy brigantines,
Laden with wine and oil from Lucca. 
Now all is ready, high and low;
Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio!