The weary sails a moment slept, The oars were silent for a space, As past Hesperian shores we swept, That were as a remembered face Seen after lapse of hopeless years, In Hades, when the shadows meet, Dim through the mist of many tears, And strange, and though a shadow, sweet.
So seemed the half-remembered shore, That slumbered, mirrored in the blue, With havens where we touched of yore, And ports that over well we knew.
Then broke the calm before a breeze That sought the secret of the west;And listless all we swept the seas Towards the Islands of the Blest.
Beside a golden sanded bay We saw the Sirens, very fair The flowery hill whereon they lay, The flowers set upon their hair.
Their old sweet song came down the wind, Remembered music waxing strong, -Ah now no need of cords to bind, No need had we of Orphic song.
It once had seemed a little thing To lay our lives down at their feet, That dying we might hear them sing, And dying see their faces sweet;But now, we glanced, and passing by, No care had we to tarry long;Faint hope, and rest, and memory Were more than any Siren's song.
CIRCE'S ISLE REVISITED.
Ah, Circe, Circe! in the wood we cried;
Ah, Circe, Circe! but no voice replied;
No voice from bowers o'ergrown and ruinous As fallen rocks upon the mountain side.
There was no sound of singing in the air;Faded or fled the maidens that were fair, No more for sorrow or joy were seen of us, No light of laughing eyes, or floating hair.
The perfume, and the music, and the flame Had passed away; the memory of shame Alone abode, and stings of faint desire, And pulses of vague quiet went and came.
Ah, Circe! in thy sad changed fairy place, Our dead youth came and looked on us a space, With drooping wings, and eyes of faded fire.
And wasted hair about a weary face.
Why had we ever sought the magic isle That seemed so happy in the days erewhile?
Why did we ever leave it, where we met A world of happy wonders in one smile?
Back to the westward and the waning light We turned, we fled; the solitude of night Was better than the infinite regret, In fallen places of our dead delight.
THE LIMIT OF LANDS.
Between the circling ocean sea And the poplars of Persephone There lies a strip of barren sand, Flecked with the sea's last spray, and strown With waste leaves of the poplars, blown From gardens of the shadow land.
With altars of old sacrifice The shore is set, in mournful wise The mists upon the ocean brood;Between the water and the air The clouds are born that float and fare Between the water and the wood.
Upon the grey sea never sail Of mortals passed within our hail, Where the last weak waves faint and flow;We heard within the poplar pale The murmur of a doubtful wail Of voices loved so long ago.
We scarce had care to die or live, We had no honey cake to give, No wine of sacrifice to shed;There lies no new path over sea, And now we know how faint they be, The feasts and voices of the dead.
Ah, flowers and dance! ah, sun and snow!
Glad life, sad life we did forego To dream of quietness and rest;Ah, would the fleet sweet roses here Poured light and perfume through the drear Pale year, and wan land of the west.
Sad youth, that let the spring go by Because the spring is swift to fly, Sad youth, that feared to mourn or love, Behold how sadder far is this, To know that rest is nowise bliss, And darkness is the end thereof.
VERSES
MARTIAL IN TOWN.
Last night, within the stifling train, Lit by the foggy lamp o'erhead, Sick of the sad Last News, I read Verse of that joyous child of Spain,Who dwelt when Rome was waxing cold, Within the Roman din and smoke.
And like my heart to me they spoke, These accents of his heart of old:-"Brother, had we but time to live, And fleet the careless hours together, With all that leisure has to give Of perfect life and peaceful weather,"The Rich Man's halls, the anxious faces, The weary Forum, courts, and cases Should know us not; but quiet nooks, But summer shade by field and well, But county rides, and talk of books, At home, with these, we fain would dwell!
"Now neither lives, but day by day Sees the suns wasting in the west, And feels their flight, and doth delay To lead the life he loveth best."So from thy city prison broke, Martial, thy wail for life misspent, And so, through London's noise and smoke My heart replies to the lament.
For dear as Tagus with his gold, And swifter Salo, were to thee, So dear to me the woods that fold The streams that circle Fernielea!
APRIL ON TWEED.
As birds are fain to build their nest The first soft sunny day, So longing wakens in my breast A month before the May, When now the wind is from the West, And Winter melts away.
The snow lies yet on Eildon Hill, But soft the breezes blow.
If melting snows the waters fill, We nothing heed the snow, But we must up and take our will, -A fishing will we go!
Below the branches brown and bare, Beneath the primrose lea, The trout lies waiting for his fare, A hungry trout is he;He's hooked, and springs and splashes there Like salmon from the sea!
Oh, April tide's a pleasant tide, However times may fall, And sweet to welcome Spring, the Bride, You hear the mavis call;But all adown the water-side The Spring's most fair of all.
TIRED OF TOWNS.
'When we spoke to her of the New Jerusalem, she said she would rather go to a country place in Heaven.'
Letters from the Black Country.
I'm weary of towns, it seems a'most a pity We didn't stop down i' the country and clem, And you say that I'm bound for another city, For the streets o' the New Jerusalem.
And the streets are never like Sheffield, here, Nor the smoke don't cling like a smut to THEM;But the water o' life flows cool and clear Through the streets o' the New Jerusalem.
And the houses, you say, are of jasper cut, And the gates are gaudy wi' gold and gem;But there's times I could wish as the gates was shut -The gates o' the New Jerusalem.
For I come from a country that's over-built Wi' streets that stifle, and walls that hem, And the gorse on a common's worth all the gilt And the gold of your New Jerusalem.
