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ON this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright
The cautious pilot, ten revolving years
Great Pagan's son, unwonted erst to tears,
Wept o'er his wound ; alike each rolling light
Of heaven he watched, and blamed its lingering flight ;
By day the sea-mew screaming round his cave
Drove slumber from his eyes ; the chiding wave
And savage howlings chased his dreams by night.
Hope still was his : in each low breeze that sighed
Through his low grot he heard a coming oar-
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied ;
Nor seldom listened to the fancied roar
Of Oeta's torrents, or the hoarser tide
That parts famed Trachis from the Euboic shore.