lyre! 
    Still, as along the whirling chariot flew,
    I kept the wafture of his wings in view: 
    Onward his snow-white steeds were seen to bound
    O’er many a steepy hill and dale profound: 
    And, victims of his rage, the captive throng. 
    Chain’d to the flying wheels, were dragg’d along,
    All torn and bleeding, through the thorny waste;
    Nor knew I how the land and sea he pass’d,
    Till to his mother’s realm he came at last. 
    Far eastward, where the vext AEgean roars,
    A little isle projects its verdant shores: 
    Soft is the clime, and fruitful is the ground,
    No fairer spot old ocean clips around;
    Nor Sol himself surveys from east to west
    A sweeter scene in summer livery drest. 
    Full in the midst ascends a shady hill,
    Where down its bowery slopes a streaming rill
    In dulcet murmurs flows, and soft perfume
    The senses court from many a vernal bloom,
    Mingled with magic; which the senses steep
    In sloth, and drug the mind in Lethe’s deep,
    Quenching the spark divine—­the genuine boast
    Of man, in Circe’s wave immersed and lost. 
    This favour’d region of the Cyprian queen
    Received its freight—­a heaven-abandon’d scene. 
    Where Falsehood fills the throne, while Truth retires,
    And vainly mourns her half-extinguish’d fires. 
    Vile in its origin, and viler still
    By all incentives that seduce the will,
    It seems Elysium to the sons of Lust,
    But a foul dungeon to the good and just. 
    Exulting o’er his slaves, the winged God
    Here in a theatre his triumphs show’d,
    Ample to hold within its mighty round
    His captive train, from Thule’s northern bound
    To far Taprobane, a countless crowd,
    Who, to the archer boy, adoring, bow’d. 
    Sad fantoms shook above their Gorgon wings—­
    Fantastic longings for unreal things,
    And fugitive delights, and lasting woes;
    The summer’s biting frost, and winter’s rose;
    And penitence and grief, that dragg’d along
    The royal lawless pair, that poets sung. 
    One, by his Spartan plunder, seal’d the doom
    Of hapless Troy—­the other rescued Rome. 
    Beneath, as if in mockery of their woe,
    The tumbling flood, with murmurs deep and low,
    Return’d their wailings; while the birds above
    With sweet aerial descant fill’d the grove. 
    And all beside the river’s winding bed
    Fresh flowers in gay confusion deck’d the mead,
    Painting the sod with every scent and hue
    That Flora’s breath affords, or drinks the morning dew,
    And many a solemn bower, with welcome shade,
    Over the dusky stream a shelter made. 
    And when the sun withdrew his slanting ray,
    And winter cool’d the fervours of the day,
    Then came the genial hours, the frequent feast