Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze!
I can but tell thee how tall spears are cross’d,
And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms
To lighten with the stroke! But round the spot
Where, like a storm-fell’d mast, our standard sank,
The heart of battle burns.
Gon. Where is that spot?
Her. It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms,
That lift their green heads o’er the tumult still,
In calm and stately grace.