XI.

"'Tis done--he nearly waked--but it is done. Corsair! he perished--thou art dearly won. All words would now be vain--away--away! 1600 Our bark is tossing--'tis already day. The few gained over, now are wholly mine, And these thy yet surviving band shall join: Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, When once our sail forsakes this hated strand."