THE SIRENS’ SONG.
Steer hither, steer your wingèd pines,
All beaten mariners:
Here lie undiscovered mines
A prey to passengers;
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the phœnix urn and nest;
Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you save our lips;
But come on shore,
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves, our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,
Exchange; and be awhile our guests;
For stars, gaze on our eyes;
The compass, Love shall hourly sing,
And, as he goes about the ring,
We will not miss
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.
Browne: Inner Temple Masque.
