When the proud vessel dropped her Anchor in the Bay, no prouder man, nor Hopeful, than was Marco. Lightly he sprang Ashore. He looked to right, to left, no sign of His loved ones cheered his gaze. Uranne, he cried, What! no welcome for Marco? No outstretched arms to fold me in love’s embrace? He tottered to the cot all overgrown with Weeds and trailing vines. O! stars above write On hardest stone, Desolate, forlorn⁠—alone.