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10

VIII. AT THE NEEDLES, ISLE OF WIGHT.

When the Phœnician sailors, for their store
Of moon-white metal, dropped to yonder bay,
These broken cliffs were memories day by day
Of that far land from whence they plied the oar.
For ever 'twixt the sunset and the shore
With chalk-hewn hunch the monster camel lay
Beneath the bellowing cape, and through the spray
They seemed to hear the bull of Babel roar,
Giant and human-headed; so they passed
With prayer to mighty Melkarth and to Bel,
And steered towards the island's furnace fire,
They felt o'ershadowed by the walls of Tyre,
In fancy saw the smoke of Sidon cast
Upon the waters Ashtoreth loved well.
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