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PASSING THE SIRENS.
ULYSSES.
The headlands pale, the long, far-pointing cliffs
Of Circe's isle, are fading on the sea.
Our oars are idle, for the rising wind,
Strong Auster, fills the sail: the galley's beak
From every billow tears the garland foam,
And trails the scattered sea-blooms in her wake.
We should be near the islands: look, my men,
You, Perimedes, look, whose hawk-eyes peer,
Deep-set, beneath their many-wrinkled lids,
Tell me if yon be shores which rather float
On the unburdened seas, the isles of heat,
Delusive vapor-lands that come and go,
Than rise from under, lifting solid fronts
To meet the turmoil of the changing tides.
Of Circe's isle, are fading on the sea.
Our oars are idle, for the rising wind,
Strong Auster, fills the sail: the galley's beak
From every billow tears the garland foam,
And trails the scattered sea-blooms in her wake.
We should be near the islands: look, my men,
You, Perimedes, look, whose hawk-eyes peer,
Deep-set, beneath their many-wrinkled lids,
Tell me if yon be shores which rather float
On the unburdened seas, the isles of heat,
Delusive vapor-lands that come and go,
Than rise from under, lifting solid fronts
To meet the turmoil of the changing tides.
A steady helm, my pilot! yonder lies
The broader channel: look not on the shores
That glimmering change from purple into green,
But mark the burning highway of the sun,
Now to his bath descending,—follow that,
Straight through, and out on waters unexplored,
Ay, though we reach the Thunder's awful house,
The caverned hell of storms, than once touch keel
In these smooth harbors. Turn away your eyes,
My sailors, from the fair, fast-rising isles,
That drug the winds with many a musky flower
To sleep, that smooth the waters as with oil,
And open bowery laps of sunny coves,
To tempt your tempest-battered frames. And me,
Who never gave ye toils I did not share,
Or tasted pleasures I denied ye,—who
In Chian ports the flaccid wine-skin filled,
And in the arms of soft Ionian girls
Ye after storms long anchorage allowed,—
Me bind ye fast, here, at the mainmast's foot,
And stop my ears with wool, lest I should lose
The settled will that drives my purpose on,
And falter with slack sails, the shame of all,
Of ye, my men, and all who honored me,
Heroes and demigods, in Troy. For I,
Wiser than ye in scheming, stronger proved
In much endurance, have the keener sense
Of all delights and all indulgences,
The more temptation to forbidden lusts.
Let me not hear the singing from the isles,
Or see the Sirens, naked in the shade,
Spread their alluring couches!
The broader channel: look not on the shores
That glimmering change from purple into green,
But mark the burning highway of the sun,
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Straight through, and out on waters unexplored,
Ay, though we reach the Thunder's awful house,
The caverned hell of storms, than once touch keel
In these smooth harbors. Turn away your eyes,
My sailors, from the fair, fast-rising isles,
That drug the winds with many a musky flower
To sleep, that smooth the waters as with oil,
And open bowery laps of sunny coves,
To tempt your tempest-battered frames. And me,
Who never gave ye toils I did not share,
Or tasted pleasures I denied ye,—who
In Chian ports the flaccid wine-skin filled,
And in the arms of soft Ionian girls
Ye after storms long anchorage allowed,—
Me bind ye fast, here, at the mainmast's foot,
And stop my ears with wool, lest I should lose
The settled will that drives my purpose on,
And falter with slack sails, the shame of all,
Of ye, my men, and all who honored me,
Heroes and demigods, in Troy. For I,
Wiser than ye in scheming, stronger proved
In much endurance, have the keener sense
Of all delights and all indulgences,
The more temptation to forbidden lusts.
Let me not hear the singing from the isles,
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Spread their alluring couches!
Ye, who toiled
With me, whom now from Circe's sty I saved,
Whose fate and mine is one, hear these my words:
Brail up the slackened mainsail to the yard:
Strong Auster fails: in order sit ye down,
Each on his bench, within the hollow ship,
And smite the billows of the hoary sea!
Let the white blades of fir keep even time,
Rattling together,—nor the helmsman fall
A hair's breadth from his course. It comes at last!
Whate'er you hear, the tasks I set perform
In order! Press the stoppers of my ears:
Nay, stop your own,—your faces grow too keen,—
Your eyes are full of wild and hungry light.
Now, by Poseidon! my right arm is free,
Look shoreward, and I slay you! Orpheus, there,
Tightens the loose chords of his lyre: he leans
Against the spray-wet altar on the prow,
Gazing straight forward, as his soul were dropt
Into the ocean of the golden sky.
Ay, sing, and overtake it with your song,
And if the Sirens not more rugged be
Than pines of Thessaly, that left the hills
To hear your music, they will quit their isles,
Shorn of their spells, your captives, following us
In dumb subjection through the barren seas.
With me, whom now from Circe's sty I saved,
Whose fate and mine is one, hear these my words:
Brail up the slackened mainsail to the yard:
Strong Auster fails: in order sit ye down,
Each on his bench, within the hollow ship,
And smite the billows of the hoary sea!
Let the white blades of fir keep even time,
Rattling together,—nor the helmsman fall
A hair's breadth from his course. It comes at last!
Whate'er you hear, the tasks I set perform
In order! Press the stoppers of my ears:
Nay, stop your own,—your faces grow too keen,—
Your eyes are full of wild and hungry light.
Now, by Poseidon! my right arm is free,
Look shoreward, and I slay you! Orpheus, there,
Tightens the loose chords of his lyre: he leans
Against the spray-wet altar on the prow,
Gazing straight forward, as his soul were dropt
Into the ocean of the golden sky.
Ay, sing, and overtake it with your song,
And if the Sirens not more rugged be
Than pines of Thessaly, that left the hills
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Shorn of their spells, your captives, following us
In dumb subjection through the barren seas.
THE SIRENS.
They are rough with the salt of the sea,
They are brown with the brand of the sun:
They are weary, weary of the sea;
They are weary of the sun.
Tug at the heavy oar;
Heave at the stubborn sail,—
Tossed in the mid-sea gale,
Wrecked on the fatal shore!
They are brown with the brand of the sun:
They are weary, weary of the sea;
They are weary of the sun.
Tug at the heavy oar;
Heave at the stubborn sail,—
Tossed in the mid-sea gale,
Wrecked on the fatal shore!
Here in our isles is rest,
Here there is rest alone:
Sweet is rest, ah, sweet is rest,
White the arms and warm the breast,—
Naught beyond but the unknown West,
Naught but the waves unknown!
Here there is rest alone:
Sweet is rest, ah, sweet is rest,
White the arms and warm the breast,—
Naught beyond but the unknown West,
Naught but the waves unknown!
From their foreheads wipe the brine,
Round their brows the poppies twine:
Lay them on couches of balmy thyme,
Deep in the shade of the bee-loved lime!
Let them sleep: the restless deep
Here no more compels to keep
The weary watches that baffle sleep:
Toil is here a thing unknown,
Peril is a stranger here;
Sweetest rest, and rest alone,
Waits the weary mariner.
Round their brows the poppies twine:
Lay them on couches of balmy thyme,
Deep in the shade of the bee-loved lime!
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Here no more compels to keep
The weary watches that baffle sleep:
Toil is here a thing unknown,
Peril is a stranger here;
Sweetest rest, and rest alone,
Waits the weary mariner.
ORPHEUS.
You sit serene upon your golden seats,
In the bright climate of eternal calm.
No pain can touch you, and the tumult raised
By foolish men dies in this lower air:
But Song—when from the Poet's perfect lips
Divinest song is shed—finds entrance there,
And bears his message even to your board.
Great Zeus lifts up his awful brow: his beard
Drops from its knotted coils, and sweeps his knees;
The thunder's edge grows keener in his grasp.
And the grave pleasure seated in his eyes
Brightens Olympian ether. Pallas hears;
Her brow's chill adamant is less severe:
And large-eyed Herè lifts the violet lids,
Shading the languid fountains of her eyes,
To look the joy her indolence makes dumb.
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I see thee, whom in Delos I adored,
And unto whom, beyond the Thracian strait,
I built an altar on the windy isle
Beside the Tauric seas. Thy splendid hair,
Spread by the swiftness of thy chariot-wheels,
Rays with celestial gold thy forehead's arch,
And thine immortal lips, too sweet for man,
Too eloquent for woman, half unclose,
Unuttered consolation in their smile,—
Unspoken promises, whence hope is born
Of something happier, somewhere in the spheres.
THE SIRENS.
You have toiled enough, mariners!
Labor no more:
Lower the canvas,
Leave the oar:
Over our island
Storms cannot come:
Winds are in slumber:
Thunder is dumb.
Only the nightingale
Sings in her nest:
Balmy our couches,
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Roses shall garland you,
Arms shall encircle you,
Lips shall be pressed!
Wine in the goblets
Shines ruby and gold,—
Strength to the weary,
Warmth to the cold,
Blood to the wasted,
Youth to the old!
Ah, and the rapture
Thousandfold dearer,
Ne'er to be told:
Learn ye the secret,—
Taste ye the sweetness,—
Beauty's possession
Belongs to the bold!
ORPHEUS.
Not Minos, iron judge, alone shall speak
Our final sentence; but the balance hangs,
Even while we live, in sight of all the Gods.
Our fates are weighed, and less unequal seem
To calm Olympian eyes, than ours, obscured
By films inseparate from this cloudy earth.
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Sees not the rosy splendor of the sail
At morning, when, a planet of the sea,
It shines afar to dwellers on the land;
So we the later radiance of our lives,
Now shining, see not. We have toiled, 't is true:
Stared Danger's lion boldly in the face
Until he turned: borne wounds and racking pains;
The frosts of Colchian winters, and the fire
That darts from Cancer on the Libyan shore:
Brief joy, brief rest, stern labor, suffering,
Are ours,—yet have we kept, as heroes should,
The steady cheerfulness of temperate hearts,
Courage, and mutual trust. We shall not leave
The vapid dust of idlers in our urns:
Behind our lives shall burn the shining tracks
Of splendid deeds, and men long after us
Shall build the steadfast mansion of our fame.
What here we lose, shall be our portion there
Among the Happy Fields,—divine repose
Eternally prolonged, and blameless joy.
We in that larger freedom of the blest
Heroic shades, shall find our chosen seats.
This restless life beneath the hollow sky,
And looking o'er the edges of the world
Far from the anchored shores, the tongues of air,
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Where gods abide, dim whispers, teaching us,
God-like, the secrets of the elements,
Have smoothed our entrance to the ample realms
Where Youth returns, and Joy, so timorous now,
Drops, like a weary dove, to fly no more.
THE SIRENS.
Listen, ye mariners! hark to our promises!
Prouder than pleasure the gifts we confer:
Though unto passion the Siren gives passion,
He who seeks power receives it from her!
Prouder than pleasure the gifts we confer:
Though unto passion the Siren gives passion,
He who seeks power receives it from her!
Labor no longer, confronting the turbulent
Elements, ever opposing your will:
Secrets we know, knowing all things, immortal,—
Equal with gods your desires to fulfil.
Elements, ever opposing your will:
Secrets we know, knowing all things, immortal,—
Equal with gods your desires to fulfil.
Secrets that chain in his caverns the Thunder,
Fetter the winds when they eagerest are:
Loosen the stream from its urns in the mountain,
Ay, and the vaults of the earthquake unbar!
Fetter the winds when they eagerest are:
Loosen the stream from its urns in the mountain,
Ay, and the vaults of the earthquake unbar!
Come, and the delicate spell shall be spoken,
Subtly to seize, and securely to bind,—
Wisdom and eloquence, honeyed persuasion,
Giving ye mastery over your kind.
Subtly to seize, and securely to bind,—
Wisdom and eloquence, honeyed persuasion,
Giving ye mastery over your kind.
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Men shall adore ye, and even Immortals
Stoop from their thrones in Olympian flame:
All that have conquered and triumphed before ye
Dust shall become at the feet of your fame!
Stoop from their thrones in Olympian flame:
All that have conquered and triumphed before ye
Dust shall become at the feet of your fame!
ULYSSES.
It cleaves the muffled sense; it penetrates
The guarded porches of the brain, no lance
Hurled from a giant's arm more sure: it hums
And stings within me, as the brown bee hums,
Shut in the folded heart of some rich flower,
Drinking its drop of honey,—so it creeps
Within the purple blossom of my heart,
That music: and the very thrills of fear
To hide the secret honey of my lust,
Aid the seduction and betray the spoil.
You see me tremble: will it never cease?
It follows, follows, clearer as we pass
The channel's throat, the final isles abeam,
And sweeter, keener, more alluring still,
From looking on the unfriendly seas. My men,
Sing me your loudest songs—the yo-heave-O!
Of Aulis, or the coarse carousal-glees
Of Tenedos and Troy! What? are ye dumb,
With eyes that burn like half-extinguished brands,
Fanned with desires new-blown, and mutinous
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Yell with the rage of disappointed lust,
The spite of thwarted opportunity,
The frenzy which an unrelenting Fate
Smiles at, and so increases! Curse your chief,
Even me, Ulysses,—lash yourselves to wrath,
Like Satyrs when the Bacchic madness takes
Autumnal hills, so ye but overcome
That still-pursuing music! Bravely done!
My heart is tougher for that brawny roar,
Which, in the old time heard, could always turn
The battle's doubtful scale.
A fresher wind
Foreruns the presence of the rearward night;
Salt scud flies over us, and pale sea-fire
Flashes around the rudder. Set me free:
I am your captain,—you are still my men;
My sailors, whose obedience makes me strong,
My comrades, whom I love. See! yonder sinks
The glimmering beach astern: the songs are still;
The lovely Treachery withdraws at last
Its baffled spells. Now, whatsoever waits
For us, of new adventure, hostile winds,
Deceitful reefs, leagues of unharbored shore,
Or combats with strange tribes, gigantic forms
Cyclopean, or of bestial shape abhorred,
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Strong to resist, where mere resistance counts
Above all courage to confront the shocks
Whereon true manly steel but rings unharmed;
But this assails us from the softer side,
Melting the hero's marrow. Wherefore, now,
Broach we that skin of amber Cretan wine,
First pouring, as is meet, libations large
To Pallas, and Poseidon, and to Zeus.
Ho, Orpheus! Are you dreaming on the prow?
Or have the Sirens through your trancèd ears
Rapt forth your soul? You cannot hear them now:
Come down: our hearts need festal music. Sing
As when we skirted Delos, and the white
Uplifted temple shone like morning snow,
'Twixt the blue hemispheres of sky and sea!
ORPHEUS.
I looked on him whose marble mansion gleams
High over Delos,—did the Sirens sing?
Who hears their music, sitting in the light
Of his immortal features, breathing balm
Shook from the rich confusion of his curls?
He gave me entrance to the happy meads
Beyond the rainbow's span: I breathed, with him,
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I heard the piercing sweetness of his lyre
Strike harmony through all the shuddering heart
Of Chaos, while from blissful stars that slid,
Sparkling, around him, in their crystal grooves,
Sweet noises came, responsive. I beheld
His music shape the world's eternal law.
Immortal Justice there was justified:
Fate span an equal thread: more vile became
Rebellion to the gods, obedience light,
Complaint unworthy. They the soonest reach
The shining fields where shades of heroes walk,
Who, spurning passion, rise with even souls
O'er this, your madness, as an eagle hangs
Above the thunder, in the sunshine poised.
Your voices call me from my lofty dream,
Yet think not that my spirit stoops to share
Your noisy gladness! Rather let me breathe
This pulse of music throbbing at my heart,
Until the speaking wires shall give me back
Some fragments of the voices of the Gods.
THE SAILORS.
No doubt you know the language of the Gods,
You, Orpheus, with your eyes that look afar,
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But you, our Captain, know the hearts of men.
Here, pour this cup of amber wine to Zeus,
This, to Poseidon,—this, to Pallas,—this
Drink, shipmates, to Ulysses, from your hearts!
Sing, Orpheus, if you like: we do not want
Your Samothracian songs that cheat our ears
Like wind among the pines,—but lusty staves,
“Down with the Dardans!” or “The Girl of Cos,”
Songs that our captain loves: we sing with him.
Who knows us, suffers with us, feels for us,
Stands at the post of peril at our head,
Strong to subdue our hot, rebellious blood,
Free to forgive the easy vice, because
He feels it tugging at his heart the same,—
Him will we follow, though ten thousand isles
Of Sirens tempted, to the utmost verge
Where Earth falls sheer away, and under where
The great sun rolls, and the stars hide at dawn.
Drink with us, Captain! strike hands once again!
We swear anew the obedient oath we took
When first you shipped us, wild, wayfaring knaves,
Among the scattered isles. The watch is set;
The night is fortunate; the wind is fair;
Our hearts are happy,—let our compact hold!
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