Chapter 71

Now, when the prince her fun’ral rites had paid, He plow’d the Tyrrhene seas with sails display’d. From land a gentle breeze arose by night, Serenely shone the stars, the moon was bright, And the sea trembled with her silver light. Now near the shelves of Circe’s shores they run, (Circe the rich, the daughter of the Sun,) A dang’rous coast: the goddess wastes her days In joyous songs; the rocks resound her lays: In spinning, or the loom, she spends the night, …