May garland mine!
“He! he!”—That love-lorn dirge—that heavenly
tongue—
That air, she taught him; ’t was Rosalvo sung!
Rosalvo, whom the waves, which wreck’d their bark,
Had borne, like her, for purpose sad and dark,
To that strange isle; though far remote the beach
From Irza’s grot, which Fate ordain’d him reach;
But now at length his curious search explores
These rude and slippery crags and distant shores;