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Well have the poets fabled such a tale,
In the creative mind of olden time.
Such to a younger age seems but a veil,
Fair as the fairest summer of their clime,
In which they would adorn a moral truth
Which, unadorn’d, must cause too bitter ruth.
For their cold creed would fain explain away
The Sirens’ music as the noise of waves,
Beating tumultuous in some rocky bay,
Or echoing faintly from some distant caves;
Yet in that legendary song, I wis,
Is hid some truth of morals such as this.
Yet no—’twere better without explanation,
That each should make his Siren what he list,
For magic music is in every station
To make man listen where he should resist;
Listening, aye, listening to those loving tones,
Perchance he changes into whitening bones.
