But far away the sea-beat Minyæ Cast forth the foam, as through the growing night They laboured ever, having small delight In life all empty of that promised bliss, In love that scarce can give a dying kiss, In pleasure ending sweet songs with a wail, In fame that little can dead men avail, In vain toil struggling with the fateful stream, In hope, the promise of a morning dream. Yet as night died, and the cold sea and grey Seemed running with them toward the dawn of day, Needs must they once again forget their death, Needs must they, being alive and drawing breath, As men who of no other life can know In their own minds again immortal grow. But toward the south a little now they bent, And for a while o'er landless sea they went, But on the third day made another land At dawn of day, and thitherward did stand; And since the wind blew lightly from the shore, Somewhat abeam, they feared not with the oar To push across the shallowing sea and green, That washed a land the fairest they had seen, Whose shell-strewn beach at highest of the tide 'Twixt sea and flowery shore was nowise wide, And drawn a little backward from the sea There stood a marble wall wrought cunningly, Rosy and white, set thick with images, And over-topped with heavy-fruited trees, Which by the shore ran, as the bay did bend, And to their eyes had neither gap nor end; Nor any gate: and looking over this, They saw a place not made for earthly bliss, Or eyes of dying men, for growing there The yellow apple and the painted pear, And well-filled golden cups of oranges Hung amid groves of pointed cypress trees; On grassy slopes the twining vine-boughs grew, And hoary olives 'twixt far mountains blue, And many-coloured flowers, like as a cloud The rugged southern cliffs did softly shroud; And many a green-necked bird sung to his mate Within the slim-leaved, thorny pomegranate, That flung its unstrung rubies on the grass, And slowly o'er the place the wind did pass Heavy with many odours that it bore From thymy hills down to the sea-beat shore, Because no flower there is, that all the year, From spring to autumn, beareth otherwhere, But there it flourished; nor the fruit alone From 'twixt the green leaves and the boughs outshone, For there each tree was ever flowering. Nor was there lacking many a living thing Changed of its nature; for the roebuck there Walked fearless with the tiger; and the bear Rolled sleepily upon the fruit-strawn grass, Letting the conies o'er his rough hide pass, With blinking eyes, that meant no treachery. Careless the partridge passed the red fox by; Untouched the serpent left the thrushes brown, And as a picture was the lion's frown. But in the midst there was a grassy space, Raised somewhat over all the flowery place, On marble terrace-walls wrought like a dream; And round about it ran a clear blue stream,