Naxos

We cross the deep but narrow wave that shines
'Tween marble Paros, and the isle of vines:
Dear unto Bacchus fruitful Naxos still,
The rich red grape impurpling every hill;
E'en to each ruin vines and ivies cling,
That wont to crown the Bromian god and king.
High rose his temple on yon sea-girt rock,
Baffling for ages storm and earthquake's shock,
And still a shattered remnant, wild as fair,
Stands like the shade of Pleasure sorrowing there;
At morn and noon that ruin gleams like snow,
Poised o'er the sapphire wave that foams below;
But when, from Western skies, the dying day
Shoots through the ancient porch his crimson ray,
Red flushing Doric base, and lintel-stone,
Long lines of light o'er trembling billows thrown,
It seems some ruby-rock asunder riv'n,
Or radiant gateway opening into heav'n.