POETRY.

THE SYRENS.

Off Capri, .April. 1868.

LOOK down,—far downward! Are not those the Syrens? Do not their white arms gleam,

Where wavering sunbeams light the depths of ocean, Like some sweet doubtful dream?

Listen, oh, listen ! Is not that their singing ?- That low, sweet, murmuring sound, Steeping both soul and sense in slumbrous music, That ever-eddying round, Now sinks and pauses dying, and then rises, Most like an organ's swell ; And if the words be theirs that fill my fancy, Or mine, I cannot tell.

"Come down," they sing, "come down, oh, weary mortal, With heart so ill at ease !

Come down, and taste the cool calm rest that waits you„ Below the changeful seas !

"Above, the fiery summer sunbeams scorch you, And the hard winter chills.

Below, is neither burning heat of summer, Nor yet the cold which kills.

"Above, your eyes are blinded by the sunshine,.

Or look in vain for light.

Below, a soft green twilight reigns for ever, Of equal day and night.

"The earth is full of care, of wild endeavour, That seldom brings success, Of griefs that sap the strength, and dim the eyesight,.

And joys that do not bless.

"There all things change,—your very griefs pass by you,. And fast your joys decay, And the strong passions of your hate and anger Die fruitlessly away.

"Life flieth fast, and falleth quickly from you.

Your once warm loves grow cold ; Your youth is full of toil ; your age is weary ; And so your tale is told!

"But, down with us, no weariness nor labour, Shall stir your dreamful ease.

And the fierce fire of passion, and of longing, Grows cool beneath the seas.

"For here, perpetual pleasure steeps the senses In deep unbroken calm, Closing the wounds you bring from life's wild struggle,.

With its soft healing balm.

"Come down ! You love to feel the tiny wavelets Steal round about your feet.

If 'tis a joy to feel their sportive kisses,

Will not their clasp be sweet ?

"Come down ! come down ! The lulling voice of oceaix Shall drown earth's harsher noise ; And you shall taste how rest that is unbroken Outweighs her chiefest joys."

Oh, cease, sweet voices ! cease your witching musie.

Cease ere your song prevail !

Ah !—it is over !—and I was but dreaming Upon the ancient tale, Where yet lies hid a truth of subtle meaning, By noblest hearts confest ; Except as he becometh beast, or angel, Man may not find his rest.

And though in truth we hear no Syren voices Luring to shameful ease, Yet yearnings rise within us as we listen Unto the murmuring seas ; For there is something in the sound of waters Sweeter than sweetest mirth, Uttering aloud the soul's unspoken longings, Sought and unfound on earth.