Like a captive from his keeping,
Up the Fading East again,
Where on rosy shores of sunlight broke the surges of his main.
Where the orange branches mingled
On the sunny garden-side,
In a rare and rich pavilion
Sat the beautiful Sicilian—
Sat the Count Alberto’s bride,
Musing sadly on his absence, in the balmy eveningtide.
Like a star, in ocean mirrored,