Lord Byron

La voile enfle où, vifs, s'engouffrent les vents,
Heureux de l'arracher à son enfance.
Les rochers blancs s'estompent loin devant,
Se perdent vite en l'écume qui danse.
Peut-être alors, de son désir d'errance,
Il se repent ;

(The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew,
As glad to waft him from his native home ;
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
And soon were lost in circumambient foam :
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam
Repented he, )