Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918/The Sirens' Song

by William Browne

STEER, hither steer your wingèd pines,All beaten mariners!Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,  A prey to passengers—Perfumes far sweeter than the bestWhich make the Phœnix' urn and nest.   Fear not your ships,Nor any to oppose you save our lips;  But come on shore,Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts,  Where never storms arise,Exchange, and be awhile our guests:  For stars gaze on our eyes.The compass Love shall hourly sing,And as he goes about the ring,  We will not missTo tell each point he nameth with a kiss.  —Then come on shore,Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.