Who, when ships are that way tending,
Troop across the flushing sands,
To all reefs and narrows wending,
With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands?
Yet I see, the howling levels
Of the deep are not your lair;
And your tragic-vaunted revels
Are less lonely than they were.
Like those kings with treasure steering
From the jewelled lands of dawn,
Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing,
Stream all day through your enchanted lawn.
And we too, from upland valleys,
Where some Muse with half-curved frown
Leans her ear to your mad sallies
Which the charmed winds never drown;
By faint music guided, ranging
The scared glens, we wandered on,
Left our awful laurels hanging,
And came heaped with myrtles to your throne.
From the dragon-wardered fountains
Where the springs of knowledge are,
From the watchers on the mountains,
And the bright and morning star;
We are exiles, we are falling,
We have lost them at your call—
O ye false ones, at your calling
Seeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall!
Are the accents of your luring
More melodious than of yore?
Are those frail forms more enduring
