OFF JUAN DE FUCA by WILSON PUGSLEY MACDONALD

OFF Juan de Fuca lies a cove
Rimmed round with rock and paved with shale,
And here the quinqueremes of Jove
Once dipped their canvas to the gale.

And here at last each roving soul
Gave dreams of warm Olympus up,
Forgot the bacchanalian bowl
And Ganymede's carven cup.

Dark pines with cloisters cool and deep
Rose high above this blessed cove,
That Ida here might never weep
To wander in her gloomy grove.

And elsewhere all the cove was warm
With motes that danced their golden feet
To make Apollo bless the storm
That drove him to this fair retreat.

The rocks that rimmed this cove were crowned
With grass whose green was almost lost
Amid a group of daisies, bound
For Beauty's yearly Pentecost.

Thor beat his hammer on the rocks,
And praised their battling with the tide;
And sad Medusa sheared her locks,
For nothing ill could here abide.

And no one mourned for Thessaly;
Nor was their full contentment strange,
For, looking southward, all could see
The new Olympics, range on range.

Here from their beds of purple shale,
And fanned by winds too shy to croon,
They saw these mountains press their pale,
Cold foreheads to a colder moon.

And one day came command from Jove
To lift the sails and man the oars
And leave for evermore this cove
For far and less Elysian shores.

"To go," he thundered, "all are loath;
Yet came in vain, who did not learn
Even the gods will sink in sloth
If they have naught for which to yearn.

"And here, where waters gently lave,
Forgetful of the outer roar,
The soul to peace becomes a slave,
And sweet unrest is nevermore."

Off Juan de Fuca lies a cove
Rimmed round with rocks and paved with shale;
And here the quinqueremes of Jove
One lovely summer's day set sail.

And here come I a morn in May,
Adown a slope where Flora ran
And where the daisies, white and gay,
Once cooled the fevered feet of Pan.

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