And subject is the surge.
They wander o’er the waves,—their eye impatiently
Seeks where the Moslem’s flag flaunts proudly o’er the sea:—
“’Tis there! ’Tis there!” exclaim the brave, impatient crowd,—
The sails unfurled,—each soul with rage and courage burns,—
Each to the combat turns:
They meet,—it thunders loud!
I see from Ætna’s rocks a floating army throng:
A hero,[141] yet unsung, wafts the proud choir along,—
The masts, a fir-tree wood,—the sails, like outspread wings.