The night-breeze from the orange-groves passed by,
Laden with odor. Heaven was chrisolite;
The sea a living mirror, in whose depths
The richly studded concave was reflected,
Making a perfect globe; and as the ship
Pursued her trackless flight, she seemed to be
Some spirit on errand supernatural,
So dark and silently she glided on
The babbling waves were scarcely audible.
Stranger.A pleasant sail which landsmen only dream of—