Had left behind Trinacria’s burning isle,
And visited the margin of the Nile:
And now, that winter deepens round the Pole,
The circling voyage hastens to its goal;
They, blind to Fate’s inevitable law,
No dark event to blast their hope foresaw,
But from gay Venice soon expect to steer
For Britain’s coast, and dread no perils near;
Inflamed by Hope, their throbbing hearts elate
Ideal pleasures vainly antedate,