"COURAGE!" 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' wav'ring lights and shadows broke,
Rolling a slumb'rous sheet of foam below.

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From th' inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,

Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with show'ry 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
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale

66

Θάρσος,” ἔφη· καὶ χεῖρας ορεξάμενος ποτὶ γαῖαν, ηὔχετ ̓ ἐπ ̓ ἀκροπόλου ταχέως μάλα κύματος ἥξειν. ἑσπέριοι δ' ἥκουσιν, ὅθ ̓ ἕσπερος αΐδιός τις

φαίνετ ̓· ἀλύεσκεν δ ̓ ἀκτὴν πέρι νήνεμος ἀὴρ, δύσπνοον ὡς βρίζοντος ὄναρ μεγαλωστὶ σελήνη στῆ καθύπερθε νάπης· ἐπὶ δ ̓ οὔρεος, ήΰτε καπνὸς, στάζε τε καὶ λῆγεν καὶ στάζεν ἀμοιβαδὶς ὕδωρ.

ῥείθρων ἔβρυε γῆ· πρηνὴς τὰ μὲν ἠΰτε καπνὸς, ἠὲ λίνου ποτ ̓ ἄωτον, ἄνωθεν λεπτότατα ψῆς. τῶν δ ̓ ἄπο, μαρμαρυγὰς μεταμειβομένην τε δι ̓ ἀχλὺν, κωφὸν παφλάζοντα, κατέκλυζ ̓ οἴδματ ̓ ἄβυσσον. ἀργηστὴν ποταμὸν, μυχόθεν πελάγοσδε ῥέοντα θαύμασαν ἀρχαίας δὲ νιφὸς κορυφὰς τρικαρήνους ἄψοφα τηλεφανεῖ ῥόδεος βάλεν ἕσπερος αὐγῇ· ἐν δὲ πίτυς πλεκτὴν δροσόεσσ ̓ ἀνέτελλε καθ ̓ ὕλην.

ἥλιος, ἀκροτάτοις ξανθῆς ἐπὶ τέρμασι γαίας, παύετο δυόμενος, αἰὲν μέλλοντι ἐοικώς4.

πόῤῥω πουλύγναμπτα διὰ πτύχας ἔπρεπ ̓ ὀρεινὰς ἄγκεα καὶ βῆσσαι καὶ λειμῶνες κροκόβαπτοι,

1 Od. IX. 336.
3 Il. XIV. 16.

2 Brunck. ad Soph. Trach. 678.

4 Od. IX. 607.

And meadow, set with slender galingale;

A land where all things always seem'd the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flow'r and fruit, whereof they gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them,
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores: and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave:
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,

And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave: but evermore Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wand'ring fields of barren foam. Then some one said, "We will return no more:" And all at once they sang, "Our island home Is far beyond the wave: we will no longer roam.”

εὐστέφανοι πλατάνοις ῥαδινοῖσίν τ ̓ ἀμφὶ κυπείροις· φάσμ ̓ ἀστεμφὲς ἀεί· περὶ δὲ στειρὴν κατὰ κῦμα, ὠχρὸν ἰδεῖν, φλόγεόν τε μελάγχρωτες παρὰ φέγγος, ἠγερέθοντ', ἀγανοῖσι κατηφέες ὀφθαλμοῖσι, Λωτοφάγοι.

τοὶ δὴ κλῶνας φέρον ἀνθεμόεντας,

καρποφόρον γάνος ἄῤῥητον, καὶ δῶκαν ἑκάστῳ·
οἱ δ ̓ ἐπάσαντ', ἀμέτρητον ὑπεὶρ ἅλα κυματοαγῆ
ἄξεινον παρὰ θῖνα μινυρόμενον βακχεύειν
οἶδμ ̓ ἐδόκει βομβῆεν· ἀραιὴ δ ̓ ἵκετο φωνὴς
φθεγγομένων, ὥς τις νεκύων ἀμένηνος ἀφ ̓ Αΐδου.
ὕπνος ἔχειν ἀΰπνους, κραδίης τε παλίῤῥοθος ὁρμὴ
ἡδύ τι μελπομένῳ ἰνδάλλετο.

οἱ δ ̓ ἐκάθηντο,

μεσσηγὺς Φοίβου τε φάους δίας τε Σελήνης, ξουθοῦ ἐπὶ ψαμάθου· πέρι τ ̓ ἄσμενοι ἐμνήσαντο πατρίδα καὶ ὁμῶας, φίλα τέκνα, φίλας τε γυναῖκας κῦμα δὲ δυσφόρεον, καὶ ναυστολίην ἀλεγεινὴν, καὶ πελάγη ἀφροῖο πολυπλανῆ ἀτρυγέτοιο. ὧδε δέ τις εἴπεσκεν, “Αλις πεπλανήμεθ', ἑταῖροι” αὐτίκ ̓ ἄρα ξύμπαντες, “Αλίβροχον ἡμέτερον δῶ εὖ μάλα μακρὸν ἄπεστιν, ἑκὼς ἐνὶ οἴνοπι πόντῳ ὧδε μένειν ὄχ ̓ ἄριστον ἅλις πεπλανήμεθ', ἑταῖροι.”

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass:
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies

Than tired eyelids upon tired 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-leav'd flowers weep,

And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly consum'd with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who are the first of things,