KALENDRIA,
A PORT IN CILICIA.
Do you see yon vessel riding,
Anchored in our island bay,
Like a sleeping sea-bird biding
For the morrow’s onward way?
See her white wings folded round her
As she rocks upon the deep;
Slumber with a spell hath bound her,
With a spell of peace and sleep.
Seems she not as if enchanted
To that lone and lovely place,
Henceforth ever to be haunted
By that sweet ship’s shadowy grace.
Yet, come here again to-morrow,
Not a vestige will remain,
Though those sweet eyes strain in sorrow,
They will search the sea in vain.
’Twas for this I bade thee meet me,
For a parting word and tear;
Other lands and lips may greet me;
None will ever seem so dear.
Other lands—I may say, other—
Mine again I shall not see;
I have left mine aged mother,
She has other sons than me.
Where my father’s bones are lying,
There mine own will never lie;
Where the myrtle groves are sighing,
Soft beneath our summer sky.
Mine will be a wilder ending,
Mine will be a wilder grave,
Where the shriek and shout are blending,
Or the tempest sweeps the wave.
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