Upon her lute, and she had of them sung
Ere darker passions had her bosom wrung.
Turning far thence, she gazed across the sea.
To where young Phaon dwelt—bright Sicily;
Then her heart swelled—to every wo awake.
And beat the narrow cage it could not break—
“Yes—yes—inconstant Phaon! thou art there
Rejoicing, heedless of my lone despair—
I see thee in the laurel-grove—thy noble form
Move on—a maiden hanging on thine arm,