For ever and for ever with those just souls and true And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. THE LOTOS-EATERS. OURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "COURAG "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.” All round the coast the languid air did swoon, A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, 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 mountain-tops, 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 A land where all things always seem'd the same! Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, They sat them down upon the yellow sand, CHORIC SONG. I. THERE is sweet music here that softer falls Or night-dews 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, Why are we 2. weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, "There is no joy but calm!" Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 3. Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 4. Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. 5. How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, 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, Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! 6. Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, For surely now our household hearths are cold: Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: H |