LXXII.

That isle is now all desolate and bare, Its dwellings down, its tenants passed away; None but her own and Father's grave is there, And nothing outward tells of human clay; Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, No stone is there to show, no tongue to say, What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's,[ea] Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades.