The black waves come in lashing the old walls,
The shipless harbour from the shipless sea;
The dreary wind sinks down at intervals--
Winter is here, and yet it spring should be,
Chasing the snows with sweet regality,
And the wild hills enamelling with flowers,
That now the myrtle sore and pallidly
Turning its branches from the salt spray-showers
Reigns over alone on yon deserted towers
An aloe grows, but its tall bloom is dead,
Deep in his chink the bright green lizard cowers,
Sunshiny elf, and fears the stranger's tread
Rolling the loose stones down the steep, but he
Loves thee, quaint creature, and thy watchful head.