ULYSSES AND THE SIREN. Samuel Daniel. Siren. COME worthy Greek, Ulysses, come, Here may we sit and view their toil Enjoy the day in mirth the while, Ulysses. Fair nymph, if fame or honor were Then would I come and rest with thee, But here it dwells, and here must I To spend the time luxuriously Becomes not men of worth. Siren. Ulysses, O be not deceived With that unreal name, This honor is a thing conceived, Begotten only to molest Our peace, and to beguile, The best thing of our life, our rest, And give us up to toil. Ulysses. Delicious nymph, suppose there were Nor honor nor report, Yet manliness would scorn to wear For toil doth give a better touch To make us feel our joy, And ease finds tediousness as much As labor yields annoy. Siren. Then pleasure likewise seems the shore Whereto tends all your toil, Which you forego to make it more, And perish oft the while. Who may disport them diversely Find never tedious day, And ease may have variety As well as action may. Ulysses. But natures of the noblest frame These toils and dangers please, And they take comfort in the same And with the thoughts of actions past Are recreated still: When pleasure leaves a touch at last To show that it was ill. Siren. That doth opinion only cause, No widows wail for our delights, Ulysses. But yet the state of things require And these great sports of high desire To purge the mischiefs that increase, And all good order mar, For oft we see a wicked peace To be well changed for war. Siren. Well, well, Ulysses, then I see, I shall not have thee here: And therefore I will come to thee, And take my fortune there. I must be won that cannot win, Yet lost were I not won, STANZAS. WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA. Lord Byron. Oн, talk not to me of a name great in story; What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? O fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCL John Keats. O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, The sedge has wither'd from the lake, O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! And the harvest 's done. I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful-a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song. |