The weary-hearted sailors mount the isle,
And, free from thought of peril, there abide.
Elated, on the sands they build a fire,
A mounting blaze. There, light of heart, they sit-
No more discouraged-eager for sweet rest.
Then when the crafty fiend perceives that men,
Encamped upon him, making their abode,
Enjoy the gentile weather, suddenly
Under the salty waves he plunges down,
Straight to the bottom deep he drags his prey;
He, guest of the ocean, in his watery haunts
Drowns ships and men, and fast imprisons them
Within the halls of death.
The Physiologus, 2 AD