last poem of the fourth book, is perhaps the very finest and most perfect example of imaginative and tragic satire that exists: if this rank be due to a poem at once the most vivid in presentation, the most sublime in scorn, the most intense and absolute in condensed expression of abhorrence and in assured expression of belief. But in the fifth of these seven caskets of chiseled gold and tempered steel there is a pearl of greater price than in any of the four yet opened. The song dated from sea, which takes farewell of all good things and all gladness left behind--of house and home, of the flowers and the sky, of the betrothed bride with her maiden brow--the song which has in its burden tile heavy plashing sound of the wave following on the wave that swells and breaks against the bulwarks--the song of darkening waters and darkened lives has in it a magic, for my own ear at least, incomparable in the whole wide world of human song. Even to the greatest poets of all time such a godsend as this--such a breath of instant inspiration--can come but rarely and seem given as by miracle. "There is sorrow on the sea," as the prophet said of old; but when was there sorrow on sea or land which found such piercing and such perfect utterance as this? Adieu, patrie! L'onde est en furie. Adieu, patrie, Azur! Adieu, maison, treille au fruit mûr Adieu, les fleurs d'or du vieux mur! Adieu, patrie! Ciel, forêt, prairie! Adieu, patrie, Azur! Adieu, patrie! L'onde est en furie. Adieu, patrie, Azur! Adieu, fiancée au front pur. Le ciel est noir, le vent est dur. Adieu, patrie! Lise, Anna, Marie! Adieu, patrie. Azur! Adieu, patrie! L'onde est en furie. Adieu, patrie, Azur! Notre œil, que voile un deuil futur. Va du flot sombre au sort obscur. Adieu, patrie! Pour toi mon cœur prie. Adieu, patrie, Azur!