XIII.
Day brightened in the East, and o’er the waters
The round sun rose and threw across the wave
A lambent flame, blood-red, as though from slaughters
In Orient lands. The breaking surf did lave
Muëna’s feet: he, wrapt in wonderings grave,
Looked long and wistful, such as lovers do
To greet their love. At length the wondering slave
Saw on the deep a form that neared, and grew,
And stepped upon the beach—the King returned anew.