Far behind the fragrant pile,
Sends its odours through the isle;
And the winds that stir
In the poplars are imbued
With the cedar's precious wood,
With incense and with myrrh,
Till the azure waves beneath
Bear away the scented breath
Of the lone and lovely island
In the far off southern seas.
But no more does that perfume
Hang around the purple loom
Where Calypso wove
Threads of gold with curious skill,
Singing at her own sweet will
Ancient songs of love;
Weary on the sea-wash'd shore,
She will sing those songs no more
In the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
From the large green leaves escape
Clusters of the blooming grape;
Round the shining throne
Still the silver fountains play,
Singing on through night and day,
But they sing alone:
Lovely in their early death,
No one binds a violet wreath,
In the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
Love and Fate—oh, fearful pair!
Terrible in strength ye are;
Until ye had been,
Happy as a summer night,
Conscious of its own sweet light,
Was that Island-queen.
Would she could forget to grieve,
Or that she could die and leave
The lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
She is but the type of all,
Mortal or celestial,
Who allow the heart,
In its passion and its power,
On some dark and fated hour,
To assert its part.
Fate attends the steps of Love,—
Both brought misery from above
To the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
