Classic Poem

With breeze astern, and sky serenely clear,
He parts from Egypt at Arcturus' rise,
And as the Pharos fades before his eyes
His brass-lined, speedy ship fills him with cheer.

But Alexandria's mole no more he'll near:
In waste of sand not e'en the young kid tries
The tempest's hand has scooped his grave, where sighs
A wind-entwisted shrub all lone and drear.

In fold the deepest of the shifting dune,
In dawnless night where shines nor star nor moon,
As last the navigator quiet owns.

O Earth, O Sea, pity his anxious Shade!
And on the Hellenic shore where rest his bones
Thy tread be light, thy voice be silent made.