O singing syrens, do ye weep
That now ye hear not anywhere
The swift oars of the seamen leap,
See their wild, eager eyes a-stare?
O syrens, that no more ensnare
The souls of men that once were free,
Are ye not filled with cold despair—
O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
O Triton, on some coral steep
In green-gloom depths, dost thou forbear
With wreathëd horn to call thy sheep,
The wandering sea-waves, to thy care?
O mermaids, once so debonnair,
Sport ye no more with mirthful glee?
The ways of lover-folk forswear?—
O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
Envoy.
Deep down 'mid coral caves, beware!
They wait a day that yet must be,
When Ocean shall be earth's sole heir—
O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
William Sharp.
TO AUSTIN DOBSON.
From the sunny climes of France,
Flying to the west,
Came a flock of birds by chance,
There to sing and rest:
Of some secrets deep in quest,—
Justice for their wrongs,—
Seeking one to shield their breast,
One to write their songs.
Melodies of old romance,
Joy and gentle jest,
Notes that made the dull heart dance
With a merry zest;—
Maids in matchless beauty drest,
Youths in happy throngs;—
These they sang to tempt and test
One to write their songs.
In old London's wide expanse
Built each feathered guest,—
Man's small pleasure to entrance,
Singing him to rest,—
Came, and tenderly confessed,
Perched on leafy prongs,
Life were sweet if they possessed
One to write their songs.