Therefore, when all the heavy heated day
Of rowing on the waters was nigh done,
And like a track of sweetness past away
Waned on the wave the last track of the sun,
At length with scarce a sound or warning cry,
Save of the rowers ceasing from the oar,
He reached her side and prayed her pass not by;
Yea, prayed her bear him yet a little more.
But truly this well-nigh availed to move
Her—Cleopatra—with remorse for all:
She knew not of such pardon, e’en from love;
Nor craved to look upon his utter fall.
And, first, when it was told her how he came
And sought to reach the galley where she was,
She faltered for a while with fear and shame,
And bade them scarce give way to let him pass:
Only at length he showed them the plain sight
How he was broken and so soon to die;
Then they fell back all grieved and gave him right,
And scarce believed the man was Antony.
And yet he could not speak; but lay forlorn
Crouched up about the gilded quivering prow,
Three days, from morn to night and night to morn,
As one whom a sore burden boweth low.
Harshly the sea-sounds taunted him at will,
And seemed in mocking choruses combined;
Each bitter inward thought was uttered shrill
On shrieking tongues of many a thwart-blown wind.
And where with onward beak the galley clave
Full many a silver mouth in the blue mere,
The turned up whitened lips of every wave
Rang out a bitter cadence on his ear.
But first awhile his thoughts were taking leave
Sadly of Rome, and all the pageant days;
For now at length he saw and would believe
The end of triumphs and the end of praise.
And now he did survey, apart from wrath,
The various fates of men both great and small;
How little reign or glory any hath;
And how one end comes quickly upon all;