Such was the tale he told of Avallon, E'en such an one as in days past had won His youthful heart to think upon the quest; But to those old hearts nigh in reach of rest, Not much to be desired now it seemed-- Perchance the heart that of such things had dreamed Had found no words in this death-laden tongue We speak on earth, wherewith they might be sung; Perchance the changing years that changed his heart E'en in the words of that old tale had part, Changing its sweet to bitter, to despair The foolish hope that once had glittered there-- Or think, that in some bay of that far home They then had sat, and watched the green waves come Up to their feet with many promises; Or the light wind midst blossom-laden trees, In the sweet Spring had weighted many a word Of no worth now, and many a hope had stirred Long dead for ever. Howsoe'er that be Among strange folk they now sat quietly, As though that tale with them had nought to do, As though its hopes and fears were something new. But though, indeed, the outworn, dwindled band Had no tears left for that once longed-for land, The very wind must moan for their decay, And from the sky, grown dull, and low, and grey, Cold tears must fall upon the lonely field, That such fair golden hopes erewhile did yield; And on the blackening woods, wherein the doves Sat silent now, forgetful of their loves. Yet, since a little life at least was left, They were not yet of every joy bereft, For long ago was past the agony, Midst which they found that they indeed must die; And now well-nigh as much their pain was past As though death's veil already had been cast Over their heads--so, midst some little mirth, They watched the dark night hide the gloomy earth. THE GOLDEN APPLES. This tale tells of the voyage of a ship of Tyre, that, against the will of the shipmen, bore Hercules to an unknown land of the West, that he might accomplish a task laid on him by the Fates. As many as the leaves fall from the tree, From the world's life the years are fallen away Since King Eurystheus sat in majesty In fair Mycenæ; midmost of whose day It once befell that in a quiet bay A ship of Tyre was swinging nigh the shore, Her folk for sailing handling rope and oar. Fresh was the summer morn, a soft wind stole Down from the sheep-browsed slopes the cliffs that crowned, And ruffled lightly the long gleaming roll Of the peaceful sea, and bore along the sound Of shepherd-folk and sheep and questing hound, For in the first dip of the hillside there Lay bosomed 'mid its trees a homestead fair.