THE LOTOS-EATERS. "COURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward the land "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land, In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale A land where all things always seem'd the same ! Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make. They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 99 CHORIC SONG. 1. THERE is sweet music here that softer falls Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 2. Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, Still from one sorrow to another thrown : And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; "There is no joy but calm!” Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 3. Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 4. Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Should life all labour be? L Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease : Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. 5. How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! |