Canto IX

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore,

      Sailest the placid ocean-plains

      With my lost Arthur's loved remains,

Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.

So draw him home to those that mourn

      In vain; a favourable speed

      Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn.

All night no ruder air perplex

      Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright

      As our pure love, thro' early light

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.

Sphere all your lights around, above;

      Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;

      Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,

My friend, the brother of my love.

My Arthur! whom I shall not see

      Till all my widow'd race be run;

      Dear as the mother to the son,

More than my brothers are to me.