Twas sad; for aye have lute and bard
Held prophecy of tone;
But, like the shadow of a bird,
Soon was the sadness flown.
And redder, redder grew the sky,
And redder grew the brine—
The lighter rose the laugh and song,
The gayer past the wine.
'Twas like a court of fairy land,
Held by the silver main—
The young prince, and his sister fair,
Their gay and gallant train.
The first star is upon the east,
The last upon the west,
And both are, but one tinge more pale,
Mirror'd on ocean's breast.
No cloud is on the face of heaven,
No ruffle on the deep,
And there is but such gentle wind
As o'er the lute might sweep.
The last wine-cup is drained, and now,
Fair ship, they crowd to thee.
Ah! these are but unsteady hands
To guide thee o'er the sea.
But still it was a gallant sight
To see her breast the tide;
