Wafting with motion scarce perceived; and now
In rapture Irza from the vessel’s prow
Gazed on an isle with verdure gay and bright,
Which seemed (so green it shone in solar light)
An emerald set in silver. Long her eyes
Dwelt on its rocks; and “Oh! dear friend,” she cries,
And clasps Rosalvo’s hand,—“admire with me
Yon isle, which rising crowns the silent sea!
How bold those mossy cliffs, which guard the strand,
Like spires, and domes, and towers in fairy-land!