Their treasures on the fated sand to pour;
Afar the white-robed sea-gull loves to soar;
But, pure as victim for a nation's vow,
A lovely maiden strikes the shell, and now
Its music charms, and sadness reigns no more.
Thus, Christian poesy, thus on pagan coasts
For ages mute had lain thy sacred lyre,
Untouched since from the prophet's hand it fell,
Till fair Cecilia, taught by angel hosts,
Attuned its music to the heavenly choir,