And there came by fits, through some wavy tree,
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea.
Hush! be still! Was that no more
Than the murmur from the shore?
Silence!—did thick rain-drops beat
On the grass like trampling feet?
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword!
The groves are fill’d with a pirate horde!
Through the dim olives their sabres shine!—
Now must the red blood stream for wine!