TOWN AND HARBOUR OF ITHACA.
By another light surrounded
Than our actual sky;
With the purple ocean bounded
Does the island lie,
Like a dream of the old world.
Bare the rugged heights ascending,
Bring to mind the past,
When the weary voyage ending,
Was the anchor cast.
And the stranger sails were furled
Beside the glorious island
Where Ulysses was the king.
Still does fancy see the palace,
With its carved gates;
Where the suitors drained the chalice,
Mocking at the Fates.
Stern, and dark, and veiled are they.
Still their silent thread entwining
Of our wretched life;
With their cold pale hands combining
Hate, and fear, and strife.
Hovers the avenging day
O’er the glorious island
Where Ulysses was the king.
Grant my fancy pardon,
If amid these trees
Still it sees the garden
Of old Laertes,
Where he met his glorious son.
The apple boughs were drooping
Beneath their rosy fruit,
And the rich brown pears were stooping
To the old man at their foot,
While his daily task was done
In the glorious island,
Where Ulysses was the king
47
