XXI.

The Moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve! Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe[eg]: Such be our fate when we return to land! Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand[eh] Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love; A circle there of merry listeners stand Or to some well-known measure featly move, Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove.