University of Virginia Library

XIII. THE SYREN.

EUMOLPUS.
Is it the voice of mine own Soul I hear?
Or some white sybil of the spherëd ocean?
And are these living limbs that lie so near,
Stirring around me with a serpent-motion?
Is this a tress of yellow yellow hair,
Around my finger in a ring enfolden?
Whose face is this, so musically fair,
That swoons upon my ken thro' vapours golden?
What sad song withers on the odorous air?
Where am I, where?
Where is my country and that vision olden?

THE SYREN.
I sang thee hither in thy bark to land
With deftly warbled measure,
I wove a witch's spell with fluttering hand,
Till thou wert drunken, Dearest, with much pleasure.
At hush of noon I had thee at my knee,
And round thy finger pink I wound a curl,
And singing smiled beneath with teeth of pearl,
Of what had been, what was, and what should be
Sang dying ditties three!
And lo! thy blood was ravish'd with the theme,
And lo! thy face was pale with drowsy dream,
While stooping low, with rich lips tremulous,
I kiss thee thus!—and thus!

EUMOLPUS.
Thy kisses trance me to a vision wan
Of what hath been and neverm re will be.
O little fishing-town Sicilian,
I can behold thee sitting by the sea!
O little red-tiled town where I was born!
O days ere yet I sail'd from mortal ken!
Why did I launch upon the deep forlorn,
Nor fish in shallow pools with simple men?
It was a charm; for while I rockt at ease
Within our little bay,
There came a melody across the seas
From regions far away;
And ah! I fell into a swooning sleep,
And all the world had changed before I knew,—
And I awoke upon a glassy deep
With not a speck of land to break the view,
And tho' I was alone, I did not weep,
For I was singing too!
I sang! I sang! and with mine oars kept time
Unto the rude sweet rhyme,
And went a-sailing on into the west
Blown on by airs divine,
Singing for ever on a wild-eyed quest
For that immortal minstrel feminine;
And night and day went past, until I lost
All count of time, yet still did melodise;
And sun and stars beheld me from their skies;
And ships swam by me, from whose decks storm-tost
Rudeseamen gazed with terror-glazëd eyes.
And still I found not her for whom I sought,
Yet smiled without annoy,
To ply the easy oar, and take no thought,
And sing, was such sweet joy!—
Then Tempest came, and to and from the sky
I rose and fell in that frail bark of mine,
While the snake Lightning, with its blank bright eye,
Writhed fierily in swift coils serpentine
Along the slippery brine;
And there were days when dismal sobbing Rain
Made melancholy music for the brain,
And hours when I shriek'd out and wept in woe
Prison'd about by chilly still affright,
While all around dropt hushëd flakes of Snow
Melting and mingling down blue chasims of night.
Yet evermore, I heard that voice sublime
Twining afar its weirdly woven song,
And ever, ever more, mine oars kept time,
And evermore I utterëd in song
My yearnings sad or merry, faint or strong.
Ah me! my love for her afar away,
My yearning and my burning night and day!
In dreams alone, I met her in still lands,
And knelt in tears before her,
And could not sing, but only wring mine hands,
Adore her and implore her!
She glisten'd past me as a crane that sails
Above the meeting of the ocean-gales,
With waft of broad slow wing to regions new;
And tho' I follow'd her from place to place,
She held her veil dew-spangled to her face,
And I could merely feel her eyes of blue
Steadfastly gazing thro'!
Wherefore my heart had broken quite,—but then
I would awake again,—
To see the oily water steep'd in rest
While, glistering in many-colour'd flakes
Harming me not, lay brooding on its breast
Leviathan and all the ocean-snakes,
And on the straight faint streak afar the round
Moist eye of morning lookt thro' dewy air,
And all was still, a joyous calm profound,—
And I would break the charm with happy sound
To find the world so fair!
And lo! I drank the rain-drops and was glad,
And smote the bird of ocean down and ate;
And ocean harm'd me not, and monsters sad
That people ocean and the desolate
Abysses spared me,—charmëd by the song
Warbled wildly as I went along.
Yet day and night sped on, and I grew old
Before I knew; and lo!
My hands were wither'd, on my bosom cold
There droopt a beard of snow,—
And raising hands I shriek'd, I cried a curse
On that weird voice that twinëd me from home;
And echoes of the awful universe
Answer'd me; and the deep with lips of foam
Mock'd me and spat upon me; and the things
That people ocean rose and threaten'd ill,
Yea also air-born harpies waving wings,
Because I could not sing to charm them still.
I was alone, the shadow of a man,
Haunting the trackless waste of waves forlorn,
Blown on by pitiless rains and vapours wan,
Plaining for that small town Sicilian,
Where, in the sweet beginning, I was born!

THE SYREN.
Ah, weep not, Dearest! lean upon my breast,
While sunset darkens stilly,
And Dian poises o'er the slumberous west
Her silver sickle chilly;
The eyes of heaven are opening, the leaves
Fold dark and dewy round the closing roses,
In lines of foam the breaking billow heaves,
Each thing that gladdens and each thing that grieves
Dip slow to sweet reposes.

EUMOLPUS.
O voice that lured me on, I know thee now!
O melancholy eyes, how bright ye beam!
O kiss, thy touch is dewy on my brow!
Sweet Spirit of my dream!

THE SYREN.
Name thy love, and I am she,
Name thy woe, and look on me,
Name the weary melody
That led thee hither o'er the sea,—
Then call to mind my ditties three
Of what hath been, what is, and what shall be!

EUMOLPUS.
Ah woe! ah woe!
I see thee and I clasp thee, and I know!
Sing to me, Sweetest, while the shadows grow—
Sing low! sing low!
Oh, sweet were slumber now, at last, at last,
For I am sick of wandering to and fro,
And ah! my singing-days are nearly pass'd—
Sing low! sing low! sing low!

THE SYREN.
Love with wet cheek, Joy with red lips apart,
Hope with her blue eyes dim from looking long,
Ambition with thin hand upon his heart—
Of which shall be the song?
Of one, of one,
Who loved till life was done,
For life with him was loving, tho' she slew his love with wrong.
Then, on a winter day,
When all was lost and his young brow was gray,
He knelt before an Altar pilëd proud
With bleachëd bones and fruits and garlands gay,
And cried aloud:—
‘Have I brought Joy, and slain her at thy feet?
Have I brought Peace, for thy cold kiss to kill,
Have I brought Youth crownëd with wildflowers sweet,
With sandals dewy from a morning hill,
For thy gray solemn eyes to fright and chill?
Have I brought Scorn the pale and Hope the fleet,
And First-Love in her lily winding-sheet?
And art thou pitiless still?
O Poesy, thou nymph of fire,
Grandest of that fair quire
Which in the dim beginning stoop'd and fell,—
So beauteous yet so awful, standing tall
Upon the mountain-tops where mortals dwell,
Seeing strange visions of the end of all,
And pallid from the white-heat glare of Hell!
Is there no prophecy, far-seeing one,
To seal upon these lips that yearn to sing?
Can nought be gain'd again? can nought be won?
Is there no utterance in this suffering,
Is there no voice for any human thing?’
Then, smiling in the impotence of pain,
His sweet breath at the Altar did he yield,—
While she he loved, afar across the main,
Stoop'd down to break a weary people's chain,
And crown a hero on a battle-field!

EUMOLPUS.
Ah no! ah no!
So sad a theme is too much woe!
Sing to me sweetlier, since thou lovest me so—
Sing low; sing low!

THE SYREN.
Sisters we, the syrens three,
Fame and Love and Poesy!
In the solitude we sit,
On the mountain-tops we flit,
From the islands of the sea
Luring man with melody;
Sisters three we seem to him
Foating over waters dim,—
Syrens, syrens three, are we—
Fame and Love and Poesy!

EUMOLPUS.
Ah woe! ah woe!
That is the song I heard so long ago!
That is the song
That lured me long:
Those were the three I saw, with arms of snow
And ringlets waving yellow, beckoning,
While on the violet deep I floated slow,
With little heart to sing;
And lo! they faded as I leapt to land,
And their weird music wither'd on the air,
And I was lying drowsy on the sand
Smiling and toying with thy yellow hair!

THE SYREN.
Sisters we, the syrens three,
Fame and Love and Poesy,
Sitting singing in the sun,
While the weary marinere
Passes on or faints in fear,—
Sisters three, yet only one,
When he cometh near!
Charmëd sight and charmëd sound
Hover quietly around,
Mine are dusky bowers and deep,
Closëd lids and balmy sleep,
Kisses cool for fever'd cheeks and warmth for eyes that weep!

EUMOLPUS.
Sing low! sing low!
Thou art more wondrous fair than mortals know.
Bringest thou, Beautiful, or peace or woe?
Close up each eyelid with a warm rich kiss
And let me listen while the sunlights go.
I cannot bear a time so still as this,
Unbroken by thy voice's fall and flow.
Sing to me, Beautiful! Sing low, sing low, sing low!

THE SYREN.
Love with wet cheek, Joy with red lips apart,
Hope with her blue eyes dim from looking long,
Ambition with thin hand upon his heart—
Of which shall be the song?
Ah, woe! ah, woe!
For Love is dead and wintry winds do blow.
Yea, Love is dead; and by her funeral bier
Ambition gnaws the lip and sheds no tear;
And in the outer chamber Hope sits wild,
Watching the faces in the fire and weeping;
And at the threshold Joy the little child
With rosy cheeks runs leaping,
And stops.—while in the misty distance creeping
Down western hills the large red sun sinks slow—
To see Death's footprints on the still white snow.
Ah, Love has gone, and all the rest must go.
Sing low! sing low! sing low!

EUMOLPUS.
It is a song that slays me. Sing no more.

THE SYREN.
Ah, Sweet, the song is o'er!—
The ocean-hum is hush'd, 'tis end of day,
The long white foam fades faintly,
The orange sunset dies into the gray
Where star on star swims saintly.
Hast thou not sung? and is not song enough?
Hast thou not loved? and is not loving all?
Art thou not weary of the wayfare rough,
Or is there aught of life thou wouldst recall?
Ah no, ah no!
The life came sweetly—sweetly let it go!
Mine are dusky bowers and deep,
Closëd eyes and balmy sleep,
Kisses cool for fever'd cheeks and warmth for eyes that weep!

EUMOLPUS.
Thou art the gentle witch that men call Death!
Ah, Beauteous, I am weary, and would rest!

THE SYREN.
Lie very softly, Sweet, and let thy breath
Fade calmly on my breast!
Call me Love or call me Fame,
Call me Death or Poesy,
Call me by whatever name
Seemeth sweetest unto thee:—
I anoint thee, I caress thee;
With my dark reposes bless thee,
I redeem thee, I possess thee!
I can never more forsake thee!
Slumber, slumber, peacefully,
Slumber calm and dream of me,
Till I touch thee, and awake thee!

EUMOLPUS.
Diviner far than song divine can tell!
Thine eyes are dim with dreams of that awaking!
Yea, let me slumber, for my heart is breaking
With too much love. Farewell! farewell! farewell!

THE SYREN.
Charmëd sight and charmëd sound
Close the weary one around!
Charmëd dream of charmëd sleep
Make his waiting sweet and deep!
Husht be all things! Let the spell
Duskly on his eyelids dwell!

EUMOLPUS.
Farewell! farewell! farewell!

THE SYREN.
O melancholy waters, softly flow!
O Stars, shine softly, dropping dewy balm!
O Moon walk on in sandals white as snow!
O Winds, be calm, be calm!
For he is tired with wandering to and fro,
Yea, weary with unrest to see and know.
O charmëd sound
That hoverest around!
O voices of the Night! Sing low! sing low! sing low!