106
THE ARGONAUTS
Through me and burns me: all my flesh is
teeming
With the live kisses of the sea, my mate,
My mistress, till the fires of life abate
And leave me languid, man-forgotten, deem-
ing
I see in sleep, in many-coloured night,
More hope than in the flame-waves of
the light.
Light ! ever light ! I swim far out and follow
The footsteps of the wind, and light in-
vades
My desolate soul, and all the cypress
shades
Glow with transparent lustre, and the hollow
I thought I had hidden in my heart must
swallow . .
The bitter draught of Truth; no Nereid
maids
Even in my sea are mine; the whole |
sea’s plades
And hills and springs are void of my Apollo—
The Sea herself my tune and my desire !
The Sun himself my lover and my lyre!
CHORUS.
This song is sweeter than the honeycomb.
MEDEA.
Nearly as sweet as good friends quarrelling.
JASON.
Look, friends, methinks I see a silvern shape
Like faint mist floating on the farthest sea.
MEDEA.
I see a barren rock above the tides.
JASON.
I hear a sound like water whispering.
MEDEA.
I hear a harsh noise like some ancient crone
Muttering curses.
JASON.
Now [I hear a song.
"Tis like some shape of sleep that moans for
joy,
Some bridal sob of love !
MEDEA.
O Son of God !
My poet, swiftly leap the live lyre forth!
Else we are all enchanted—yet to me
This song is nowise lovely. But in him
I note the live look of the eyes leap up,
And all his love for me forgotten straight
At the mere echo of that tune.
ORPHEUS.
. Hark, friends !
Aea’s tune—my Colchian harbour-song !!
I hear the waters faint and far,
And look to where the Polar Star,
Half hidden in the haze, divides
The double chanting of the tides;
But, where the harbour’s gloomy mouth
Welcomes the stranger to the south,
The water shakes, and all the sea
Grows silver suddenly.
As one who standing on the moon
Sees the vast horns in silver hewn,
Himself in darkness, and beholds
How silently all space unfolds |
Into her shapeless breast the spark
And sacred phantom of the dark ;
So in the harbour-horns I stand
Till I forget the land.
Who sails through all that solemn space
Out to the twilight’s secret place,
The sleepy waters move below
His ship’s imaginary flow.
No song, no lute, so lowly chaunts
In woods where still Arisbe haunts,
Wrapping the wanderer with her tresses
Into untold caresses.
1 The harbour in which this lyric was written
was that of Vera Cruz.