II

Over the sea our galleys went

With cleaving prows in order brave

To a speeding wind and a bounding wave —

A gallant armament;

Each bark built out of a forest-tree

Left leafy and rough as first it grew,

And nailed all over the gaping sides,

Within and without, with black bull-hides,

Seethed in fat and suppled in flame,

To bear the playful billows’ game.

So each good ship was rude to see,

Rude and bare to the outward view,

But each upbore a stately tent

Where cedar pales in scented row

Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine,

And an awning drooped the mast below,

In fold on fold of the purple fine,

That neither noontide nor starshine

Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad,

Might pierce the regal tenement.

When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad

We set the sail and plied the oar;

But when the night-wind blew like breath,

For joy of one day's voyage more,

We sang together on the wide sea,

Like men at peace on a peaceful shore;

Each sail was loosed to the wind so free,

Each helm made sure by the twilight star,

And in a sleep as calm as death,

We, the voyagers from afar,

Lay stretched along, each weary crew

In a circle round its wondrous tent

Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent,

And with light and perfume, music too.

So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness passed,

And at morn we started beside the mast,

And still each ship was sailing fast.

Now one morn land appeared — a speck

Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky.

“Avoid it,” cried our pilot, “check

The shout, restrain the eager eye!”

But the heaving sea was black behind

For many a night and many a day,

And land, though but a rock, drew nigh;

So we broke the cedar pales away,

Let the purple awning flap in the wind,

And a statue bright was on every deck!

We shouted, every man of us,

And steered right into the harbor thus,

With pomp and pæan glorious.

A hundred shapes of lucid stone!

All day we built its shrine for each,

A shrine of rock for everyone,

Nor paused till in the westering sun

We sat together on the beach

To sing because our task was done.

When lo! what shouts and merry songs!

What laughter all the distance stirs!

A loaded raft with happy throngs

Of gentle islanders!

“Our isles are just at hand,” they cried,

“Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping;

Our temple-gates are opened wide,

Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping

For these majestic forms” — they cried.

Oh, then we awoke with sudden start

From our deep dream, and knew, too late,

How bare the rock, how desolate,

Which had received our precious freight.

Yet we called out — “Depart!

Our gifts once given must here abide.

Our work is done; we have no heart

To mar our work” — we cried.

“THUS THE MAYNE GLIDETH”

Thus the Mayne glideth

Where my Love abideth.

Sleep's no softer; it proceeds

On through lawns, on through meads,

On and on, whate'er befall,

Meandering and musical,

Though the niggard pasturage

Bears not on its shaven ledge

Aught but weeds and waving grasses

To view the river as it passes,

Save here and there a scanty patch

Of primroses too faint to catch

A weary bee.

And scarce it pushes

Its gentle way through strangling rushes

Where the glossy kingfisher

Flutters when noon-heats are near,

Glad the shelving banks to shun,

Red and steaming in the sun,

Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat

Burrows, and the speckled stoat;

Where the quick sandpipers flit

In and out the marl and grit

That seems to breed them, brown as they.

Naught disturbs its quiet way,

Save some lazy stork that springs,

Trailing it with legs and wings,

Whom the shy fox from the hill

Rouses, creep he ne'er so still.