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 wit