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First Line: Beyond the straits of hercules



Behold! the strange Hesperian seas,

A glittering waste at break of dawn:
Beyond the straits of Hercules,
High on the westward plunging prow,
Behold! the strange Hesperian seas,
What dreams are on thy spirit now,
A glittering waste at break of dawn:
Sertorius of the milk-white fawn?
High on the westward plunging prow,
Not sorrow, to have done with home!
What dreams are on thy spirit now,
The mourning destinies of Rome
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Have exiled Rome's last hope with thee:
Sertorius of the milk-white fawn?
Nor dost thou think on thy lost Spain.
Not sorrow, to have done with home!
What stirs thee on the unknown main?
The mourning destinies of Rome
What wilt thou from the virgin sea?
Have exiled Rome's last hope with thee:
Hailed by the faithless voice of Spain,
Nor dost thou think on thy lost Spain.
The lightning warrior come again,
What stirs thee on the unknown main?
Where wilt thou seek the flash of swords,
What wilt thou from the virgin sea?
Voyaging toward the set of sun?
Hailed by the faithless voice of Spain,
Though Rome the splendid East hath won,
The lightning warrior come again,
Here thou wilt find no Roman lords.
Where wilt thou seek the flash of swords,
No Tingis here lifts fortress walls;
Voyaging toward the set of sun?
And here no Lusitania calls:
Though Rome the splendid East hath won,
What hath the barren sea to give?
Here thou wilt find no Roman lords.
Yet high designs enchaunt thee still;
No Tingis here lifts fortress walls;
The winds are loyal to thy will:
And here no Lusitania calls:
Not yet art thou too tired, to live.
What hath the barren sea to give?
No trader thou, to northern isles,
Yet high designs enchaunt thee still;
Whom mischief-making gold beguiles
The winds are loyal to thy will:
To sunless and unkindly coasts:
Not yet art thou too tired, to live.
What spirit pilots thee thus far
No trader thou, to northern isles,
From the tempestuous tides of war,
Whom mischief-making gold beguiles
Beyond the surging of the hosts?
To sunless and unkindly coasts:
Nay! this thy secret will must be.
What spirit pilots thee thus far
Over the visionary sea,
From the tempestuous tides of war,
Thy sails are set for perfect rest:
Beyond the surging of the hosts?
Surely thy pure and holy fawn
Nay! this thy secret will must be.
Hath whispered of an ancient lawn,
Over the visionary sea,
Far hidden down the solemn West.
Thy sails are set for perfect rest:
A gracious pleasaunce of calm things;
Surely thy pure and holy fawn
There rose-leaves fall by rippling springs:
Hath whispered of an ancient lawn,
And captains of the older time,
Far hidden down the solemn West.
Touched with mild light, or gently sleep,
A gracious pleasaunce of calm things;
Or in the orchard shadows keep
There rose-leaves fall by rippling springs:
Old friendships of the golden prime.
And captains of the older time,
The far seas brighten with gray gleams:
Touched with mild light, or gently sleep,
O winds of morning! O fair dreams!
Or in the orchard shadows keep
Will not that land rise up at noon?
Old friendships of the golden prime.
There, casting Roman mail away,
The far seas brighten with gray gleams:
Age long to watch the falling day,
O winds of morning! O fair dreams!
And silvery sea, and silvern moon.
Will not that land rise up at noon?
Dreams! for they slew thee: Dreams! they lured
There, casting Roman mail away,
Thee down to death and doom assured:
Age long to watch the falling day,
And we were proud to fall with thee.
And silvery sea, and silvern moon.
Now, shadows of the men we were,
Dreams! for they slew thee: Dreams! they lured
Westward indeed we voyage here,
Thee down to death and doom assured:
Unto the end of all the sea.
And we were proud to fall with thee.
Woe! for the fatal, festal board:
Now, shadows of the men we were,
Woe! for the signal of the sword,
Westward indeed we voyage here,
The wine-cup dashed upon the ground:
Unto the end of all the sea.
We are but sad, eternal ghosts,
Woe! for the fatal, festal board:
Passing far off from human coasts,
Woe! for the signal of the sword,
To the wan land eternal bound.
The wine-cup dashed upon the ground:
We are but sad, eternal ghosts,
Passing far off from human coasts,
To the wan land eternal bound.






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