And lures thee not the clear deep heaven Within the waters blue And thy form so fair, so mirrored there The water rolled-the water swelled, He felt, as at his love's approach, His short suspense is o'er; Half drew she him, half dropped he in, And sank to rise no more. From the German of GOETHE. THE SYRENS. THE sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, The low west wind creeps panting up the shore Full of rest, the green moss lifts, With voices deep and hollow;- Follow! O, follow! To be at rest for evermore! For evermore!' Look how the grey, old Ocean When he hears our restful voices; And all sweet sounds of earth and air Melt into one low voice alone, That murmurs over the weary sea, 'Here mayest thou harbor peacefully, And in our green isle rest for evermore! And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, Thus, on Life's weary sea, Voices sweet, from far and near, Is it not better here to be, A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Even in death unquietly? Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, Lean over the side and see The leaden eye of the sidelong shark Ever waiting there for thee: Look down and see those shapeless forms, And only stir themselves in storms, In the whirls of their unwieldy play; Look down! Look down! Upon the sea-weed, slimy and dark, That waves its arms so lank and brown, Look down beneath thy wave-torn bark Look down! Look down! Thus, on Life's lonely sea, Here all is pleasant as a dream; Listen! O, listen! Here is a gush of many streams, A song of many birds, And every wish and longing seems Here ever hum the golden bees Underneath full-blossomed trees, At once with golden fruit and flowers crowned; The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, That thy keel will not grate, as it touches the land; All around, with a slumberous sound, The singing waves slide up the strand, And there, where the smooth wet pebbles be, As if they fain would seek the shore, For evermore. Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, Voices sweet, from far and near, Ever singing in his ear, 'Here is rest and peace for thee!' J. R. LOWELL. THE CHAPEL BY THE SHORE. By the shore, a plot of ground Where day and night and day go by, Washing of the lonely seas, Shaking of the guardian trees, Piping of the salted breeze, And day and night and day go by, To the endless tune of these. Or when winds and waters keep |