A Selection from the Poems of William Morris. William Morris
of the shore, And little help she had of ashen oar, For as her shielded side rolled through the sea, Silent with glittering eyes the Minyæ Gazed o'er the surge, for they were nigh enow To see the gusty wind of evening blow Long locks of hair across those bodies white, With golden spray hiding some dear delight; Yea, nigh enow to see their red lips smile, Wherefrom all song had ceased now for a while, As though they deemed the prey was in the net, And they no more had need a bait to set, But their own bodies, fair beyond man's thought, Under the grey cliff, hidden not of aught But of such mist of tears as in the eyes Of those seafaring men might chance to rise. A moment Jason gazed, then through the waist Ran swiftly, and with trembling hands made haste To trim the sail, then to the tiller ran, And thrust aside the skilled Milesian man, Who with half-open mouth, and dreamy eyes, Stood steering Argo to that land of lies; But as he staggered forward, Jason's hand Hard on the tiller steered away from land, And as her head a little now fell off Unto the wide sea, did he shout this scoff To Thracian Orpheus: "Minstrel, shall we die, Because thou hast forgotten utterly What things she taught thee whom men call divine? Or will thy measures but lead folk to wine, And scented beds, and not to noble deeds? Or will they fail as fail the shepherd's reeds Before the trumpet, when these sea-witches Pipe shrilly to the washing of the seas? I am a man, and these but beasts, but thou Giving these souls, that all were men ere now, Shalt be a very God and not a man!" So spake he; but his fingers Orpheus ran Over the strings, and sighing turned away From that fair ending of the sunny bay; But as his well-skilled hands were preluding What his heart swelled with, they began to sing With pleading voices from the yellow sands, Clustered together, with appealing hands Reached out to Argo as the great sail drew, While o'er their white limbs sharp the spray-shower flew, Since they spared not to set white feet among The cold waves heedless of their honied song. Sweetly they sang, and still the answer came Piercing and clear from him, as bursts the flame From out the furnace in the moonless night; Yet, as their words are no more known aright Through lapse of many ages, and no man Can any more across the waters wan Behold those singing women of the sea, Once more I pray you all to pardon me, If with my feeble voice and harsh I sing From what dim memories yet may chance to cling About men's hearts, of lovely things once sung Beside the sea, while yet the world was young.
The Sirens.
O happy seafarers are ye, And surely all your ills are past, And toil upon the land and sea, Since ye are brought to us at last. To you the fashion of the world, Wide lands laid waste, fair cities burned, And plagues, and kings from kingdoms hurled, Are nought, since hither ye have turned. For as upon this beach we stand, And o'er our heads the sea-fowl flit, Our eyes behold a glorious land, And soon shall ye be kings of it.
Orpheus.
A little more, a little more, O carriers of the Golden Fleece, A little labour with the oar, Before we reach the land of Greece. E'en now perchance faint rumours reach Men's ears of this our victory, And draw them down unto the beach To gaze across the empty sea. But since the longed-for day is nigh, And scarce a God could stay us now, Why do ye hang your heads and sigh, Hindering for nought our eager prow?
The Sirens.
Ah, had ye chanced to reach the home On which your fond desires were set, Into what troubles had ye come? Short love and joy and long regret. But now, but now, when ye have lain Asleep with us a little while Beneath the washing of the main, How calm shall be your waking smile! For ye shall smile to think of life That knows no troublous change or fear, No unavailing bitter strife, That ere its time brings trouble near.
Orpheus.
Is there some murmur in your ears, That all that we have done is nought, And nothing ends our cares and fears, Till the last fear on us is brought?
The Sirens.
Alas! and will ye stop your ears, In vain desire to do aught, And wish to live 'mid cares and fears, Until the last fear makes you nought?
Orpheus.
Is not the May-time now on earth, When close against the city wall The folk are singing in their mirth, While on their heads the May-flowers fall?
The Sirens.
Yes, May is come, and its sweet breath Shall well-nigh make you weep to-day, And pensive with swift-coming death, Shall ye be satiate of the May.
Orpheus.
Shall not July bring fresh delight, As underneath green trees ye sit, And o'er some damsel's body white The noontide shadows change and flit?
The Sirens.
No new delight July shall bring But ancient fear and fresh desire, And, spite of every lovely thing, Of July surely shall ye tire.
Orpheus.
And now, when August comes on thee, And 'mid the golden sea of corn The merry reapers thou mayst see, Wilt thou still think the earth forlorn?
The Sirens.
Set flowers upon thy short-lived head, And in thine heart forgetfulness Of man's hard toil, and scanty bread, And weary of those days no less.
Orpheus.
Or wilt thou climb the sunny hill, In the October afternoon, To watch the purple earth's blood fill The grey vat to the maiden's tune?
The Sirens.
When thou beginnest to grow old, Bring back remembrance of thy bliss With that the shining cup doth hold, And weary helplessly of this.
Orpheus.
Or pleasureless shall we pass by The long cold night and leaden day, That song, and tale, and minstrelsy Shall make as merry as the May?
The Sirens.
List then, to-night, to some old tale Until the tears o'erflow thine eyes; But what shall all these things avail, When sad to-morrow comes and dies?
Orpheus.
And when the world is born again, And with some fair love, side by side, Thou wanderest 'twixt the sun and rain, In that fresh love-begetting tide; Then, when the world is born again, And the sweet year before thee lies, Shall thy heart think of coming pain, Or vex itself with memories?
The Sirens.
Ah! then the world is born again With burning love unsatisfied, And new desires fond and vain, And weary days from tide to tide. Ah! when the world is born again, A little day is soon gone by, When thou, unmoved by sun or rain, Within a cold straight house shalt lie. Therewith they ceased awhile, as languidly The head of Argo fell off toward the sea, And through the water she began to go, For from the land a fitful wind did blow, That, dallying with the many-coloured sail, Would sometimes swell it out and sometimes fail, As nigh the east side of the bay they drew; Then o'er the waves again the music flew.
The Sirens.
Think not of pleasure, short and vain. Wherewith, 'mid days of toil and pain, With sick and sinking hearts ye strive To cheat yourselves that ye may live With cold death ever close at hand; Think rather of a peaceful land, The changeless land where ye may be Roofed over by the changeful sea.
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