No sound but sound of rest is on the bosom of the deep,
Soft as the breathing of a breast serenely hushed with sleep:
Lay by the oar; there is a voice at heart to sing or sigh—
O what shall be the choice of barcarolle or lullaby?
Say shall we sing of day or night, fair land or mighty ocean,
Of any rapturous delight or any dear emotion,
Of any joy that is on Earth, or hope that is above—
The holy country of our birth, or any song of love?
Our heart in all our life is like the hand of one who steers
A bark upon an ocean rife with dangers and with fears;
The joys, the hopes, like waves or wings, bear up this life of ours—
Short as a song of all these things that make up all its hours.
Spread sail! for it is Hope to-day that like a wind new-risen
Doth waft us on a golden wing towards a new horizon,
That is the sun before our sight, the beacon for us burning,
That is the star in all our night of watching and of yearning.
Love is this thing that we pursue to-day, to-night, for ever,
We care not whither, know not who shall be at length the giver:
For Love,—our life and all our years are cast upon the waves;
Our heart is as the hand that steers;—but who is He that saves?
We ply with oars, we strive with every sail upon our mast—
We never tire, never fail—and Love is seen at last:
A low and purple mirage like a coast where day is breaking—
Sink sail!—for such a dream as Love is lost before the waking.
THE MINER.
BALLAD.
HO, I sing and I sing!
Digging jewels for the King;—
Till I tire of the measure
I sing and I sing:
Here’s a diamond true bright;
Here’s a ruby worth a treasure:
So I labour, and my sight
Surely fails, and I get gray
Digging jewels for the King:
I have toiled so many a day,
I have found so many a treasure,
Yet,—ah’s me!—I dare to say
That I could not earn my way
To the palace of the King.
I was a miner—doomed
With a fate branded at birth
To serve the King entombed
In this dungeon of the Earth:
They gave me a thing called Hope,
A word written in gold
On a talent—precious I’m told;
But, if I am to grope
All my life long in a mine,
What were the use at best
Of a bauble just to shine
And dangle at my breast?
So I sing, so I sing
Here’s a jewel for the King!—
Let me clear it of the rust;
Wrap the gold thing in gold dust:
’Tis a perfect bauble—see,
A truly precious thing,
Far fitter for a king
Than a prisoner like me.