But man may not trust to his treacherous art —
One stroke, in his wrath, and those hills shall part !
The rest of the island, level and low.
The turbulent tide doth oft overflow,
Nor is thus contented ; but day by day
Doth he crumble that dwindling sod away,
And foot by foot it is narrowing fast ;
All will be melted in ocean at last.
But who are the dwellers on this lone spot
By nature herself disowned and forgot.
That here we should linger in such a waste,
Unblest as the fancy of poet e'er traced !
Why seek we not, rather, some coralline isle
Of seas Pacific, to feast for awhile
On flowers that would seem to our wondering eyes
To have dropped from the fields of Paradise —
On fruits that a flavor as rich might boast
As the pride of Ulysses' royal host —
Where beauty, as soft as the Latmian dreams