And lures thee not the clear deep heaven And thy form so fair, so mirrored there The water rolled-the water swelled, He felt, as at his love's approach, 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, As the dark waves of the sea Follow! O, follow! To be at rest 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, 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, Than to be toiling late and soon? In the dreary night to see Nothing but the blood-red moon Go up and down into the sea; Or, in the loneliness of day, To see the still seals only Making it yet more lonely? 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, Which ever keep their dreamless sleep Far down within the gloomy deep, And only stir themselves in storms, Rising like islands from beneath, And snorting through the angry spray, As the frail vessel perisheth 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, And every wish and longing seems Lulled to a numbered flow of words,- 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, - And day and night and day go by, Or when winds and waters keep A hush more dead than any sleep, |