CXVII. Now here, the sighing winds, before unheard, Soiling the waters with its inky black. CXVIII. The screaming fowl resigns her finny prey, And labours shoreward with a bending wing, Rowing against the wind her toilsome way; Meanwhile, the curling billows chafe, and fling Their dewy frost still further on the stones, That answer to the wind with hollow groans. CXIX. And here and there a fisher's far-off bark Flies with the sun's last glimpse upon its sail, Like a bright flame amid the waters dark, Watch'd with the hope and fear of maidens pale; And anxious mothers that upturn their brows, Freighting the gusty wind with frequent vows, CXX. For that the horrid deep has no sure track CXXI. And so day ended. But no vesper spark Play'd round the savage features of the dark, A weeping maiden to high Sestos' steep, CXXII. And wav'd aloft her bright and ruddy torch, Whose flame the boastful wind so rudely fann'd, That oft it would recoil, and basely scorch The tender covert of her sheltering hand; Which yet, for love's dear sake, disdain'd retire, And, like a glorying martyr, brav'd the fire. CXXIII. For that was love's own sign and beacon guide CXXIV. Whereas her tragic cheek is truly pale, And colder than the rude and ruffian air That howls into her ear a horrid tale Of storm, and wreck, and uttermost despair, And those are dismal waves that sing his dirge." CXXV. And hark! a grieving voice, trembling and faint, Blends with the hollow sobbings of the sea; Like the sad music of a siren's plaint, But shriller than Leander's voice should be, CXXVI. For now, upon each brief and breathless pause, Made by the raging winds, it plainly calls, On Hero! Hero! whereupon she draws Close to the dizzy brink, that ne'er appals However the wild billows toss and toil. CXXVII. "Oh! dost thou live under the deep deep sea? I thought such love as thine could never die; If thou hast gain'd an immortality, From the kind pitying sea-god, so will I; And this false cruel tide that used to sever Our hearts, shall be our common home for ever! CXXVIII. "There we will sit and sport upon one billow, And sing our ocean ditties all the day, And lie together on the same green pillow, That curls above us with its dewy spray; And ever in one presence live and dwell, CXXIX. One moment then, upon the dizzy verge She stands; with face upturn'd against the sky; A moment more, upon the foamy surge She gazes, with a calm despairing eye; Feeling that awful pause of blood and breath Which life endures when it confronts with death; CXXX. Then from the giddy steep she madly springs, To save her from her death. The sea-maid wept, And in a crystal cave her corse enshrin'd, No meaner sepulchre should Hero find! |