XXII.

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene. In darkness and in storm he found delight: Nor less, than when on ocean wave serene The southern Sun diffus'd his dazzling shene.[2] Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul: And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control.