 | English Roses |  |
THE SIREN'S SONG.
This is the song the Sirens sang:—
“The oar
Is but a burden, and the clouds that hang
Are big with danger and the thunder roar;
And here
The restful bowers of golden flowers
To lull your worn and weary powers,
Perpetual evening atmosphere:
The rose
Invites you to the worlds of sleep,
And dimly nods in red repose
To pilgrims of the furrowed deep.
“The oar
Is but a burden, and the clouds that hang
Are big with danger and the thunder roar;
And here
The restful bowers of golden flowers
To lull your worn and weary powers,
Perpetual evening atmosphere:
The rose
Invites you to the worlds of sleep,
And dimly nods in red repose
To pilgrims of the furrowed deep.
“The seasons come, the seasons go,
And sad are some as very woe
For toilers on the dreary wave;
But in our land of lazy streams,
Where poppies stand in drowsy dreams,
Is refuge for the ocean slave.
The seasons go, the seasons come,
And tempests blow despair to some
With care and trouble unto all;
Here zephyrs pipe from mountain top
And fruits when ripe most gently drop,
While lisping leaves to shelter call.”
And sad are some as very woe
For toilers on the dreary wave;
But in our land of lazy streams,
Where poppies stand in drowsy dreams,
Is refuge for the ocean slave.
526
And tempests blow despair to some
With care and trouble unto all;
Here zephyrs pipe from mountain top
And fruits when ripe most gently drop,
While lisping leaves to shelter call.”
This is the song the Sirens sing;—
“The sea
Is salt and deadly, and the surges ring
A knell of ruin to the sailor's plea;
Here soft
The shadows lie and breezes vie
With waters and in music die,
And blue are blessèd skies aloft;
No pain
Can enter our enchanted halls,
But sufferers loose their iron chain
And every load of sickness falls.
“The sea
Is salt and deadly, and the surges ring
A knell of ruin to the sailor's plea;
Here soft
The shadows lie and breezes vie
With waters and in music die,
And blue are blessèd skies aloft;
No pain
Can enter our enchanted halls,
But sufferers loose their iron chain
And every load of sickness falls.
“The sunbeams rise, the sunbeams set,
And we are wise who do forget
The labour of the earth and grief;
And mellow light and shining showers
With radiant night are sweetly ours,
And sorrow is its own relief.
The sunbeams set, the sunbeams rise,
But do not fret us or surprise
And only bring a tempered boon;
For here are beds of yellow moss
With scarlet threads that run across,
And it is always the full moon.”
And we are wise who do forget
The labour of the earth and grief;
And mellow light and shining showers
With radiant night are sweetly ours,
And sorrow is its own relief.
The sunbeams set, the sunbeams rise,
But do not fret us or surprise
And only bring a tempered boon;
For here are beds of yellow moss
With scarlet threads that run across,
And it is always the full moon.”
| English Roses | |