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round the temples and the cheek Of him, who, leaving home and friends behind, In silence musing o'er the ocean leans, And watches every passing shade that marks The southern Channel's fast-retiring line; Then, as the ship rolls on, keeps a long look Fixed on the lessening Lizard,[115] the last point Of that delightful country, where he left All his fond hopes behind: it lessens still; Still, still it lessens, and now disappears! 80 He turns, and only sees the waves that rock Boundless. How many anxious morns shall rise, How many moons shall light the farthest seas, O'er what new scenes and regions shall he stray, A weary man, still thinking of his home, Ere he again that shore shall view, and greet With blissful thronging hopes and starting tears, Of heartfelt welcome, and of warmest love! Perhaps, ah! never! So didst thou go forth, My poor lost brother![116] 90 The airs of morning as enticing played, And gently, round thee, and their whisperings Might sooth (if aught could sooth) a boding heart; For thou wert bound to visit scenes of death, Where the sick gale (alas! unlike the breeze That bore the gently-swelling sail along) Was tainted with the breath of pestilence, That smote the silent camp, and night and day Sat mocking on the putrid carcases. Thou too didst perish! As the south-west blows, 100 Thy bones, perhaps, now whiten on the coast Of old Algarva.[117] I, meantime, these shades Of village solitude, hoping erewhile To welcome thee from many a toil restored, Still deck, and now thy empty urn[118] alone I meet, where, swaying in the summer gale, The willow whispers in my evening walk. Sylph, in thy airy robe, I see thee float, A rainbow o'er thy head, and in thy hand The magic instrument,[119] that, as thy wing, 110 Lucid, and painted like the butterfly's, Waves to and from, most musically rings; Sometimes in joyance, as the flaunting leaf Of the white poplar, sometimes sad and slow, As bearing pensive airs from Pity's grave. Soft child of air, thou tendest on his sway, As gentle Ariel at the bidding hies Of mighty Prospero; yet other winds Throng to his wizard 'hest, inspiring some, Some melancholy, and
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