 | Lyrics by John B Tabb |  |
81
THE SIREN STREAM TO THE OUTCAST.
Come, for my waves what I can never know
Of calm bestow;
And thou, alas, like them, hast wandered far!
Come, erring star—
Aweary now—come take thy fill of rest
Upon my breast.
Of calm bestow;
And thou, alas, like them, hast wandered far!
Come, erring star—
Aweary now—come take thy fill of rest
Upon my breast.
Come, for they call thee. Lean thy listening ear
And thou shalt hear
How soft the sigh that woos thee to the deep
Of endless sleep,
Wherein the past and all its passion seem
A vanished dream.
And thou shalt hear
How soft the sigh that woos thee to the deep
Of endless sleep,
Wherein the past and all its passion seem
A vanished dream.
Behold, I cleanse whate'er of soilure clings
To drooping wings:
Whate'er abides of dust or cleaving clay,
I purge away;
Like fire, refining, but apart from pain,
All dross and stain.
To drooping wings:
Whate'er abides of dust or cleaving clay,
I purge away;
Like fire, refining, but apart from pain,
All dross and stain.
The fever-flame that through thy being burns,
My bosom yearns
To quench. Behold, the ripples run to meet
A sister's feet,
With murmurs, not of scorn, but tenderness,
To soothe and bless.
My bosom yearns
To quench. Behold, the ripples run to meet
A sister's feet,
With murmurs, not of scorn, but tenderness,
To soothe and bless.
| Lyrics by John B Tabb | |