And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy mast,
And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost,
Yield must thy keel at last
On pitiless sea-waves tossed
Too rudely. Goodly canvas is not thine,
Nor gods, to hear thee now, when need is sorest:—
Though thou—a Pontic pine,
Child of a stately forest,—
Boastest high name and empty pedigree,
Pale seamen little trust the gaudy sail:
Stay, unless doomed to be
The plaything of the gale.
Flee—what of late sore burden was to me,
Now a sad memory and a bitter pain,—
Those shining Cyclads flee
That stud the far-off main.
TO VIRGIL.
Od. i. 24.
Unshamed, unchecked, for one so dear
We sorrow. Lead the mournful choir,
Melpomene, to whom thy sire
Gave harp, and song-notes liquid-clear!
Sleeps He the sleep that knows no morn?
Oh Honour, oh twin-born with Right,
Pure Faith, and Truth that loves the light,
When shall again his like be born?
Many a kind heart for Him makes moan;
Thine, Virgil, first. But ah! in vain
Thy love bids heaven restore again
That which it took not as a loan:
Were sweeter lute than Orpheus given
To thee, did trees thy voice obey;
The blood revisits not the clay
Which He, with lifted wand, hath driven
Into his dark assemblage, who
Unlocks not fate to mortal’s prayer.
Hard lot! Yet light their griefs who BEAR
The ills which they may not undo.