To you the fashion of the world, Wide lands laid waste, fair cities burned, And plagues, and kings from kingdoms hurled, Are nought, since hither ye have turned. For as upon this beach we stand, And o'er our heads the sea-fowl flit, Our eyes behold a glorious land, And soon shall ye be kings of it. ORPHEUS. A little more, a little more, O carriers of the Golden Fleece, A little labour with the oar, Before we reach the land of Greece. E'en now perchance faint rumours reach Men's ears of this our victory, And draw them down unto the beach To gaze across the empty sea. But since the longed-for day is nigh, And scarce a God could stay us now, Why do ye hang your heads and sigh, Hindering for nought our eager prow? THE SIRENS. Ah, had ye chanced to reach the home On which your fond desires were set, Into what troubles had ye come? Short love and joy and long regret. But now, but now, when ye have lain Asleep with us a little while Beneath the washing of the main, How calm shall be your waking smile! For ye shall smile to think of life That knows no troublous change or fear, No unavailing bitter strife, That ere its time brings trouble near. ORPHEUS. Is there some murmur in your ears, That all that we have done is nought, And nothing ends our cares and fears, Till the last fear on us is brought? THE SIRENS. Alas! and will ye stop your ears, In vain desire to do aught, And wish to live 'mid cares and fears, Until the last fear makes you nought? ORPHEUS. Is not the May-time now on earth, When close against the city wall The folk are singing in their mirth, While on their heads the May-flowers fall? THE SIRENS. Yes, May is come, and its sweet breath Shall well-nigh make you weep to-day, And pensive with swift-coming death, Shall ye be satiate of the May. ORPHEUS. Shall not July bring fresh delight, As underneath green trees ye sit, And o'er some damsel's body white The noontide shadows change and flit? THE SIRENS. No new delight July shall bring But ancient fear and fresh desire, And, spite of every lovely thing, Of July surely shall ye tire. ORPHEUS. And now, when August comes on thee, And 'mid the golden sea of corn The merry reapers thou mayst see, Wilt thou still think the earth forlorn? THE SIRENS. Set flowers upon thy short-lived head, And in thine heart forgetfulness Of man's hard toil, and scanty bread, And weary of those days no less. ORPHEUS. Or wilt thou climb the sunny hill, In the October afternoon, To watch the purple earth's blood fill The grey vat to the maiden's tune? THE SIRENS. When thou beginnest to grow old, Bring back remembrance of thy bliss With that the shining cup doth hold, And weary helplessly of this.