XV.

Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore, They passed the Tropic's red meridian o'er; Nor long the hours--they never paused o'er time, Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime,[391] Which deals the daily pittance of our span, 350 And points and mocks with iron laugh at man.[fn] What deemed they of the future or the past? The present, like a tyrant, held them fast: Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide, Like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide Their clock the Sun, in his unbounded tower They reckoned not, whose day was but an hour; The nightingale, their only vesper-bell, Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell;[392] The broad Sun set, but not with lingering sweep, 360 As in the North he mellows o'er the deep; But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left The World for ever, earth of light bereft, Plunged with red forehead down along the wave, As dives a hero headlong to his grave. Then rose they, looking first along the skies, And then for light into each other's eyes, Wondering that Summer showed so brief a sun, And asking if indeed the day were done.