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First Line: Beyond the straits of hercules



Behold! the strange Hesperian seas,
A glittering waste at break of dawn:

Beyond the straits of Hercules,
High on the westward plunging prow,
What dreams are on thy spirit now,
Behold! the strange Hesperian seas,
Sertorius of the milk-white fawn?
A glittering waste at break of dawn:
Not sorrow, to have done with home!
High on the westward plunging prow,
The mourning destinies of Rome
What dreams are on thy spirit now,
Have exiled Rome's last hope with thee:
previous hit
Sertorius of the milk-white fawn?
Nor dost thou think on thy lost Spain.
What stirs thee on the unknown main?
Not sorrow, to have done with home!
What wilt thou from the virgin sea?
The mourning destinies of Rome
Have exiled Rome's last hope with thee:
Hailed by the faithless voice of Spain,
Nor dost thou think on thy lost Spain.
The lightning warrior come again,
What stirs thee on the unknown main?
Where wilt thou seek the flash of swords,
What wilt thou from the virgin sea?
Voyaging toward the set of sun?
Hailed by the faithless voice of Spain,
Though Rome the splendid East hath won,
The lightning warrior come again,
Here thou wilt find no Roman lords.
No Tingis here lifts fortress walls;
Where wilt thou seek the flash of swords,
And here no Lusitania calls:
Voyaging toward the set of sun?
Though Rome the splendid East hath won,
What hath the barren sea to give?
Here thou wilt find no Roman lords.
Yet high designs enchaunt thee still;
No Tingis here lifts fortress walls;
The winds are loyal to thy will:
Not yet art thou too tired, to live.
And here no Lusitania calls:
No trader thou, to northern isles,
What hath the barren sea to give?
Yet high designs enchaunt thee still;
Whom mischief-making gold beguiles
The winds are loyal to thy will:
To sunless and unkindly coasts:
Not yet art thou too tired, to live.
What spirit pilots thee thus far
No trader thou, to northern isles,
From the tempestuous tides of war,
Whom mischief-making gold beguiles
Beyond the surging of the hosts?
Nay! this thy secret will must be.
To sunless and unkindly coasts:
What spirit pilots thee thus far
Over the visionary sea,
Thy sails are set for perfect rest:
From the tempestuous tides of war,
Beyond the surging of the hosts?
Surely thy pure and holy fawn
Hath whispered of an ancient lawn,
Nay! this thy secret will must be.
Over the visionary sea,
Far hidden down the solemn West.
A gracious pleasaunce of calm things;
Thy sails are set for perfect rest:
There rose-leaves fall by rippling springs:
Surely thy pure and holy fawn
And captains of the older time,
Hath whispered of an ancient lawn,
Touched with mild light, or gently sleep,
Far hidden down the solemn West.
Or in the orchard shadows keep
A gracious pleasaunce of calm things;
Old friendships of the golden prime.
There rose-leaves fall by rippling springs:
And captains of the older time,
The far seas brighten with gray gleams:
Touched with mild light, or gently sleep,
O winds of morning! O fair dreams!
Or in the orchard shadows keep
Will not that land rise up at noon?
There, casting Roman mail away,
Old friendships of the golden prime.
The far seas brighten with gray gleams:
Age long to watch the falling day,
And silvery sea, and silvern moon.
O winds of morning! O fair dreams!
Dreams! for they slew thee: Dreams! they lured
Will not that land rise up at noon?
Thee down to death and doom assured:
There, casting Roman mail away,
And we were proud to fall with thee.
Age long to watch the falling day,
And silvery sea, and silvern moon.
Now, shadows of the men we were,
Dreams! for they slew thee: Dreams! they lured
Westward indeed we voyage here,
Thee down to death and doom assured:
Unto the end of all the sea.
Woe! for the fatal, festal board:
And we were proud to fall with thee.
Woe! for the signal of the sword,
Now, shadows of the men we were,
Westward indeed we voyage here,
The wine-cup dashed upon the ground:
Unto the end of all the sea.
We are but sad, eternal ghosts,
Passing far off from human coasts,
Woe! for the fatal, festal board:
To the wan land eternal bound.
Woe! for the signal of the sword,
The wine-cup dashed upon the ground:
We are but sad, eternal ghosts,
Passing far off from human coasts,
To the wan land eternal bound.






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