| |
The Return of Ulysses
THE MAN of wisdom and endurance rare, | |
| A sundry-colored and strange-featured way, | |
| Our hearts have followed; now the pleasant care | |
| Is near its end,—the oars’ sweet-echoed play | |
| Falls on the cliffs of Ithaca’s deep bay; | 5 |
| The enemy, on whose impetuous breast | |
| The hero rode undaunted, night and day, | |
| (Such was Minerva’s power and Jove’s behest,) | |
| Scorns the inglorious strife, and lays his wrath to rest. | |
| |
| And how returns the tempest-tost? his prows | 10 |
| Gay-garlanded, with grand triumphal song? | |
| Leaps he upon the strand, and proudly vows | |
| Dire vengeance unto all who did him wrong? | |
| Not so; for him, all force and passion strong, | |
| And fretful tumult, for a while is o’er,— | 15 |
| He is borne gently, placidly along, | |
| And laid upon his own belovéd shore, | |
| Even as a wearied child, in quiet sleep once more! | |
| |
| There is no part of that Archaic lay | |
| That strikes with such resistless power on me | 20 |
| As this pure artist-touch, this tender ray, | |
| A perfect, simple light of poesy: | |
| Not the nice wiles of chaste Penelope,— | |
| Not the poor pining dog that died of joy,— | |
| Not the gray smoke the wanderer yearned to see, | 25 |
| Whose wavings he had traced, a careless boy, | |
| Sweet as they are, for me this preference can destroy. | |
| |
| Where the “stone distaffs” of the nymphs of old | |
| Still make rich tracery in the sacred cave, | |
| Where peasants the dark-shadowed fountain cold | 30 |
| Hail by the name the poet found or gave, | |
| Where on the eagle height the walls outbrave | |
| All time, and only the full-fruited vine | |
| Trails o’er the home—it may be o’er the grave— | |
| Of him for whom these memories combine,— | 35 |
| Rest, care-worn mortal, rest, and let his sleep be thine. | |
| |
