What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing: By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, Chill-wet-and misty round each stiffened limb, Refreshing earth-reviving all but him!— END OF CANTO II. SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; 1170 Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes: The cup of woe was quaffed-the spirit fled; 1180 1190 The soul of him who scorned to fear or fly- But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain, All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye- Again the Ægean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; 1200 1210 |