Classic Poem

STROPHE

 Halcyon, O Halcyon,
 Who by Pontus' rocky shore
 Singest mournful evermore,
 In a song whose tones are clear
 If kindred sorrow lends an ear,
Calling for thy husband lost,
 Brooding on the sea,—
Wingless halcyon of the foam,
 I can grieve with thee.
Grieving for the home I love,
 Longing for Diana's shrine
Where she dwells in Cynthian grove,
Where purple fold and locks of gold
 Deck her form divine;
For the fragrant Daphne's flowers;
 For the olive's fruitage sere,
 Precious gift of loved Latona,
 Mother of our goddess dear;
 For the consecrated lake,
 Where their thirst her cygnets slake,
 And their refuge joyful take
 And their pæan worship make,
Where the green shore's glad echoes ring,
While to the Muses these melodious sing.

ANTISTROPHE

 Oh, the tears, the streams of tears
  Which in sorrow-torrents fell
 When they forced me from my home,
  I shall aye remember well,—
When the precious price was paid,
When the oars in ocean played,
And hostile barks the captives bore
Seaward to this barbarous shore,
 Where we serve Atrides' child,
 Sad priestess, who has never smiled
 In this altar-worship wild.
  For habit does not teach us
   In our sorrows to be glad;
  Their misery will reach us
   Through what time our lives we lead.
This heavy fate of man shall never end,—
Grief with his pleasure evermore shall blend.

STROPHE II

For you, our honored mistress,
 Shall the Argive's fifty oars
Struggle with the surge of ocean
 Till you see your native shores.
They shall flash and flash again,
To the merry notes of Pan,
 While softer tones of Phœbus' lyre
  Shall hasten to an end
 The weary days which bring your bark
  To Attic strand.
I linger here deserted,—woe is me,
But you shall cross the madly surging sea.
The halyards high your sails in sky
   Broad display,
And your ship before the tempest's roar
   Flies away.

ANTISTROPHE II

 Oh that through the ethereal course,
 Where the sun his radiance pours,
 I might hasten to those shores!
 Oh that, wing-borne o'er the foam,
 I might fly to my home!
I would sing in chorus there
Where the virgin goddess fair,
  Of happy birth,
Welcomes throngs who eager press,
With the prayer that she may bless
  Them on the earth,
Where at the sacred shrine
  Of Locks of Gold,
Her suitors vie with gifts divine,
  Rivals bold,
That her smiles may bless the prayer
Which in reverence they bear
To Latona, mother dear;
With apparel rich and rare
Her downy cheek and golden hair
 They enfold.