Flows the silver-crested tide,
In gently winding waves;
The Zephyr creeps thy cliffs around,—
Thy cliffs, with whispering ivy crown'd,
And murmurs in thy caves.
Majestic steep! Ah, yet I love,
With many a lingering step, to rove
Thy ivied rocks among;
Thy ivied, wave-beat rocks recall
The former pleasures of my soul,