ARION.
247
She swept the strings, and fixed the while
Her dark eye's wild luxuriant smile
Upon Arion; and her lip,
Like the first spring rose that the bee can sip,
Curled half in the pride of its loveliness,
And half with a love-sigh's voluptuousness.
There is a voice of music swells
In the ocean's coral groves;
Sweet is the harp in the pearly cells,
Where the step of the sea-maid roves.
The angry storm when it rolls above,
At war with the foaming wave,
Is soft and low as the voice of love,
Ere it reach her sparry cave.
When the sun seeks his glorious rest,
And his beams o'er ocean fall,
