To meet her pirate-lover's ship,
And from the wave-kissed marble stair
Beckoned him on with quivering lip
And floating hair,
And lived some moons in happy trance,
Then learnt his death, and pined away,—
Such by these waters of romance
'Twas meet to lay.
But you—a grave for knight or sage,
Romantic, solitary, still,
O spent ones of a work-day age!
Befits you ill.
So sang I; but the midnight breeze,
Down to the brimmed, moon-charmèd main,
Comes softly through the olive-trees,
And checks my strain.
I think of her whose gentle tongue
All plaint in her own cause controlled;
Of thee I think, my brother! young
In heart, high-souled;
That comely face, that clustered brow,
That cordial hand, that bearing free,—
I see them still, I see them now,
Shall always see!
And what but gentleness untired,
And what but noble feeling warm,
Wherever shown, howe'er inspired,
Is grace, is charm?
What else is all these waters are,
What else is steeped in lucid sheen,
What else is bright, what else is fair,
What else serene?
