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Than the charms Ulysses bore?

       That we sought you with rejoicings,

       Till at evening we descry

       At a pause of Siren voicings

       These vexed branches and this howling sky? …

      … … . …

      Oh, your pardon! The uncouthness

       Of that primal age is gone,

       And the skin of dazzling smoothness

       Screens not now a heart of stone.

       Love has flushed those cruel faces;

       And those slackened arms forego

       The delight of death-embraces,

       And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow.

      “Ah!” you say; “the large appearance

       Of man’s labor is but vain,

       And we plead as stanch adherence

       Due to pleasure as to pain.”

       Pointing to earth’s careworn creatures,

       “Come,” you murmur with a sigh:

       “Ah! we own diviner features,

       Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye.

      “Come,” you say, “the hours were dreary;

       Life without love does not fade;

       Vain it wastes, and we grew weary

       In the slumbrous cedarn shade.

       Round our hearts with long caresses,

       With low sighings, Silence stole,

       And her load of steaming tresses

       Weighed, like Ossa, on the aery soul.

      “Come,” you say, “the soul is fainting

       Till she search and learn her own,

       And the wisdom of man’s painting

       Leaves her riddle half unknown.

       Come,” you say, “the brain is seeking,

       While the princely heart is dead;

       Yet this gleaned, when gods were speaking,

       Rarer secrets than the toiling head.

      “Come,” you say, “opinion trembles,

       Judgment shifts, convictions go;

       Life dries up, the heart dissembles:

       Only, what we feel, we know.

       Hath your wisdom known emotions?

       Will it weep our burning tears?

       Hath it drunk of our love-potions

       Crowning moments with the weight of years?”

      I am dumb. Alas! too soon all

       Man’s grave reasons disappear!

       Yet, I think, at God’s tribunal

       Some large answer you shall hear.

       But for me, my thoughts are straying

       Where at sunrise, through your vines,

       On these lawns I saw you playing,

       Hanging garlands on your odorous pines;

      When your showering locks inwound you,

       And your heavenly eyes shone through;

       When the pine-boughs yielded round you,

       And your brows were starred with dew;

       And immortal forms, to meet you,

       Down the statued alleys came,

       And through golden horns, to greet you,

       Blew such music as a god may frame.

      Yes, I muse! And if the dawning

       Into daylight never grew,

       If the glistering wings of morning

       On the dry noon shook their dew,

       If the fits of joy were longer,

       Or the day were sooner done,

       Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger,

       No weak nursling of an earthly sun …

       Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,

       Dusk the hall with yew!

      … … . …

      For a bound was set to meetings,

       And the sombre day dragged on;

       And the burst of joyful greetings,

       And the joyful dawn, were gone.

       For the eye grows filled with gazing,

       And on raptures follow calms;

       And those warm locks men were praising

       Drooped, unbraided, on your listless arms.

      Storms unsmoothed your folded valleys,

       And made all your cedars frown;

       Leaves were whirling in the alleys

       Which your lovers wandered down.

       —Sitting cheerless in your bowers,

       The hands propping the sunk head,

       Do they gall you, the long hours,

       And the hungry thought that must be fed?

      Is the pleasure that is tasted

       Patient of a long review?

       Will the fire joy hath wasted,

       Mused on, warm the heart anew?

       —Or, are those old thoughts returning,

       Guests the dull sense never knew,

       Stars, set deep, yet inly burning,

       Germs, your untrimmed passion overgrew?

      Once, like us, you took your station,

       Watchers for a purer fire;

       But you drooped in expectation,

       And you wearied in desire.

       When the first rose flush was steeping

       All the frore peak’s awful crown,

       Shepherds say, they found you sleeping

       In some windless valley, farther down.

      Then you wept, and slowly raising

       Your dozed eyelids, sought again,

       Half in doubt, they say, and gazing

       Sadly back, the seats of men;

       Snatched a turbid inspiration

       From some transient earthly sun,

       And proclaimed your vain ovation

       For those mimic raptures you had won. …

      … … . …

      With a sad, majestic motion,

       With a stately, slow surprise,

       From their earthward-bound devotion

       Lifting up your languid eyes—

       Would you freeze my louder boldness,

       Dumbly smiling as you go,

       One faint frown of distant coldness

       Flitting fast across each marble brow?

      Do I brighten at your sorrow,

       O sweet pleaders? doth my lot

       Find assurance in to-morrow

       Of one joy which you have not?

       Oh, speak once, and shame my sadness!

      

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