The voice, the step, the air
Of her who scorns my chain, and flies thy fatal snare.
And in some sheltered bay, at evening’s close,
The mariners their rude coats 'round them fold,
Stretched on the rugged plank in deep repose:
But I, though Phœbus sink into the main,
And leave Granada wrapt in night with Spain,
Morocco, and the Pillars fam’d of old—
Though all of human kind,
And every creature blest,