SELECTIONS IN ENGLISH POETRY.
And there to die and not to die,
To be as if ye ne'er had been,
Yet keep your memory fresh and green,
To have no thought of good or ill 395
Yet feed your fill of pleasure still ?
O idle dream ! Ah, verily
If it shall happen unto me
That I have thought of anything,
When o'er my bones the sea-fowl sing, 400
And I lie dead, how shall I pine
For those fresh joys that once were mine,
On this green fount of joy and mirth,
The ever young and glorious earth;
Then, helpless, shall I call to mind 405
Thoughts of the sweet flower-scented wind,
The dew, the gentle rain at night,
The wonder-working snow and white,
The song of birds, the water's fall,
The sun that maketh bliss of all 410
Yea, this our toil and victory,
The tyrannous and conquered sea.
The Sirens.
Ah, will ye go, and whither then
Will ye go from us, soon to die,
To fill your three-score years and ten, 415
With many an unnamed misery ?
And this the wretchedest of all
That when upon your loftely eyes
The last faint heaviness shall fall
Ye shall bethink you of your cries, 420
Come back, nor grown old seek in vain
To hear us sing across the sea.
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