Canto IX
Fair ship, that from the Italian shore,Sailest the placid ocean-plainsWith my lost Arthur’s loved remains,Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er.
So draw him home to those that mournIn vain; a favourable speedRuffle thy mirror’d mast, and leadThro’ prosperous floods his holy urn.
All night no ruder air perplexThy sliding keel, till Phosphor, brightAs our pure love, thro’ early lightShall 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 seeTill all my widow’d race be run;Dear as the mother to the son,More than my brothers are to me.