The Comrades :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sailing under the sunrise, mariners watch'd for the gleam,
Hò-rai-sàn, of thy magical peaks; and once and again
Caught it, crowded on sail, and steer'd for the Island of Dream—
Sail'd and sail'd till the vision wavered, slipped from their ken,
Vanished! Yet was the story loved and believed. It was told
How it was ever sunrise there, ever spring of the year;
There disease was unknown, and sorrow; no one grew old;

There the heart was at peace—was at peace, and what is more dear?

Did he credit the story, Vasobiovè the Wise?
Yea, and sailed with a burthen of trouble, sighing in pain:
“Weary, weary am I of life, of earth, of the skies!
Hò-rai-sàn, give me rest for the body, rest for the brain,
Rest, and quiet of spirit! Rise in the gold of the dawn,
Show thy magical summits!” And lo, the Island appears—
Glimmering peaks in the azure, beaches of bower and lawn;
And the Sage has his wish—and the peace of a hundred years!

Did it seem such an age? Nay, it seemed but a fugitive year.
Yet long ere the year had ended he wearied of rest.
The calm of the fortunate Isle grew sullen and drear;
He tired of the radiant face, of the virgin breast;

Tired of the self-same spring, of the dawn's unchanging glow,
Tired of the bliss monotonous, pleasure untroubled by pain;
Long'd in the golden calm for a blast of the winter snow,
Long'd for the men of his race, for their very sorrows again.

Vasobiovè the Wise—wiser now had he grown—
Returned from the peaks of illusion, the glamorous shore,
White and a-tremble with age, a stranger whose name was unknown,
Whose roof-tree and hearth had perished, whom tribesmen remembered no more.
“Vanished,” he cried, “is my home; wasted the days of my life!
Over that Island accursed deep may the billows roll!
The only rest in the world is a change in the weapons of strife—
The only fortunate Isle is a man's invincible soul.”