Full short his journey was; no dust

Of earth unto his sandals clave;

The weary weight that old men must,

He bore not to the grave.

He seemed a cherub who had lost his way And wandered hither, so his stay

With us was short, and 't was most meet

That he should be no delver in earth's clod, Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet

To stand before his God:

O blest word - Evermore!

1839.

THE SIRENS.

THE sea is lonely, the sea is dreary,
The sea is restless and uneasy;

Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary,
Wandering thou knowest not whither;
Our little isle is green and breezy,
Come and rest thee! O, come hither!

Come to this peaceful home of ours,

Where evermore

The low west-wind creeps panting up the shore

To be at rest among the flowers;
Full of rest, the green moss lifts,

As the dark waves of the sea

Draw in and out of rocky rifts,

Calling solemnly to thee

With voices deep and hollow,

"To the shore

Follow! O, follow!

To be at rest for evermore!

For evermore!"

Look how the gray, old Ocean From the depth of his heart rejoices, Heaving with a gentle motion,

When he hears our restful voices;

List how he sings in an undertone,

Chiming with our melody;

And all sweet sounds of earth and air

Melt into one low voice alone,

That murmurs over the weary sea,

And seems to sing from everywhere, –

"Here mayest thou harbour peacefully,

Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar; Turn thy curvèd prow ashore,

And in our green isle rest for evermore !

For evermore!"

And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill,

And, to her heart so calm and deep,
Murmurs over in her sleep,

Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still,
"Evermore!"

Thus, on Life's weary sea,

Heareth the marinere

Voices sweet, from far and near,

Ever singing low and clear,

Ever singing longingly.

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

Is it not better, than to hear

Only the sliding of the wave

Beneath the plank, and feel so near

A cold and lonely grave,

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 side-long shark

Upturned patiently,

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 seaweed, slimy and dark,

That waves its arms so lank and brown,