His had been more or less than mortal hearty
But—good or ill—it bade her not depart.
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast,
His latest virtue then had joined the rest.
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss
That asked from form so fair no more than this—
The first—the last that Frailty stole from Faith—
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath,
To lips—whose broken sighs such fragrance fling, 1720
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing!
They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle.
To them the very rocks appear to smile,
The haven hums with many a cheering sound.
The beacons blaze their wonted stations round,
The boats are darting o'er the curly bay.
And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray;
Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill discordant shriek,
Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak!
Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 1730
Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams.