On nerves so fragile, and brain so light:
And let me, returning in safety, view
Thy triumph again on the ocean blue;
And in Britain I’ll oft with flowers entwine
The Tropic Sovereign’s ebony shrine!
Was it but fancy? did He not frown,
And in anger shake his coral crown?
Gorgeous and slow the pomp moves on!
Low sinks the sun—and all is gone!
“And pray now do you mean to say that you really saw all this fine show?” Oh, yes, really, “in my mind’s eye, Horatio,” as Shakspeare says; or, if you like it better in Greek—