The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III, IV, V, VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XII. |
 | XIV. |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| XI. |
| XIII. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXII. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
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| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XXI. |
| XXIV. |
 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
But as his fellows, speechless and amazed,
Upon the weary sea so stood and gazed,
Spake Jason to them: “Heroes, tell me where
Your hearts are gone, since helpless thus ye stare
On that which helpeth not? in no such wise
A while ago, before Æetes' eyes
Ye smote the Colchian ship; with other heart
Ye drave the dark blue Clashers far apart;
No eyes I saw like these upon the day,
When with the Colchian spears on every way,
Unto Mars' acre on a doubtful quest
We passed, and dared the worst to get the best.
Upon the weary sea so stood and gazed,
Spake Jason to them: “Heroes, tell me where
Your hearts are gone, since helpless thus ye stare
On that which helpeth not? in no such wise
A while ago, before Æetes' eyes
Ye smote the Colchian ship; with other heart
Ye drave the dark blue Clashers far apart;
No eyes I saw like these upon the day,
When with the Colchian spears on every way,
140
We passed, and dared the worst to get the best.
“What will ye? Is it then so hard a thing
That we, through many countries wandering,
Shall see unheard-of things, nor fail to come
When yet our blood is warm, back to our home?
Be merry, think upon the lives of men,
And with what troubles threescore years and ten
Are crowded oft, yea, even unto him
Who sits at home, nor fears for life and limb,
But trembles the base slave unto a slave;
Or holding trifles he is fain to save,
Sits pleasureless and wearing out his life,
Or with vain words wages disgraceful strife
That leads nowhither, till forgotten death
Seizes the babbler, choking out his breath.
That we, through many countries wandering,
Shall see unheard-of things, nor fail to come
When yet our blood is warm, back to our home?
Be merry, think upon the lives of men,
And with what troubles threescore years and ten
Are crowded oft, yea, even unto him
Who sits at home, nor fears for life and limb,
But trembles the base slave unto a slave;
Or holding trifles he is fain to save,
Sits pleasureless and wearing out his life,
Or with vain words wages disgraceful strife
That leads nowhither, till forgotten death
Seizes the babbler, choking out his breath.
“But ye—forget all—get ye to the oar,
And steer rejoicing to the northern shore,
Since we shall win such glory and renown,
That, coming home again to our fair town,
Those left behind shall count us all for lords,
And tremble, gazing at our sheathèd swords.
Fair is the wind, the sunny dawn is clear,
Nor are we bound for Pluto's kingdom drear,
But for fair forests, plentiful of beasts,
Where, innocent of craft, with joyous feasts
The wise folk live as in the golden age,
Not reddening spears and swords in useless rage;
Nor need they houses, but in fair-wrought cave
Their bodies from the winter's cold they save;
Nor labour they at all, or weave, or till,
For everything the kind land bears at will.
Doubt not at all that they will welcome us
As very Gods, with all things plenteous.”
And steer rejoicing to the northern shore,
Since we shall win such glory and renown,
That, coming home again to our fair town,
Those left behind shall count us all for lords,
And tremble, gazing at our sheathèd swords.
Fair is the wind, the sunny dawn is clear,
Nor are we bound for Pluto's kingdom drear,
But for fair forests, plentiful of beasts,
Where, innocent of craft, with joyous feasts
The wise folk live as in the golden age,
Not reddening spears and swords in useless rage;
Nor need they houses, but in fair-wrought cave
Their bodies from the winter's cold they save;
Nor labour they at all, or weave, or till,
For everything the kind land bears at will.
Doubt not at all that they will welcome us
As very Gods, with all things plenteous.”
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |