'Tis Apollo comes leading They are lost in the hollows! They stream up again! What seeks on this mountain The glorified train? They bathe on this mountain, In the spring by their road; -Whose praise do they mention? Of what is it told? What will be forever, What was from of old. First hymn they the Father Of all things; and then, The rest of immortals, The day in his hotness, Matthew Arnold "C THE LOTOS-EATERS OURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon, All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountaintops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, They sat them down upon the yellow sand, CHORIC SONG OF THE LOTOS-EATERS Τ I HERE is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Cr night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. II Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; "There is no joy but calm!" Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? III Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, IV Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Death is the end of life; ah, why Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. V How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! |