Direct thy pensive eye Into the western sky; And when the evening star Does glimmer from afar Upon the mountain line, Accept it for a sign That I am near, And thinking of thee here.
I'll be thy Mercury, Thou Cytherea to me, Distinguished by thy face The earth shall learn my place; As near beneath thy light Will I outwear the night, With mingled ray Leading the westward way.
Still will I strive to be As if thou wert with me; Whatever path I take, It shall be for thy sake, Of gentle slope and wide, As thou wert by my side, Without a root To trip thy gentle foot.
I'll walk with gentle pace, And choose the smoothest place, And careful dip the oar, And shun the winding shore, And gently steer my boat Where water-lilies float, And cardinal-flowers Stand in their sylvan bowers.
Brother, where dost thou dwell? What sun shines for thee now? Dost thou indeed fare well, As we wished thee here below?
What season didst thou find? 'Twas winter here. Are not the Fates more kind Than they appear?
Is thy brow clear again As in thy youthful years? And was that ugly pain The summit of thy fears?
Yet thou wast cheery still; They could not quench thy fire; Thou didst abide their will, And then retire.
Where chiefly shall I look To feel thy presence near? Along the neighboring brook May I thy voice still hear?
Dost thou still haunt the brink Of yonder river's tide? And may I ever think That thou art by my side?
What bird wilt thou employ To bring me word of thee? For it would give them joy-- 'T would give them liberty-- To serve their former lord With wing and minstrelsy.
A sadder strain mixed with their song, They've slowlier built their nests; Since thou art gone Their lively labor rests.
Where is the finch, the thrush, I used to hear? Ah, they could well abide The dying year.
Now they no more return, I hear them not; They have remained to mourn, Or else forgot.
When life contracts into a vulgar span, And human nature tires to be a man, I thank the gods for Greece, That permanent realm of peace. For as the rising moon far in the night Checkers the shade with her forerunning light, So in my darkest hour my senses seem To catch from her Acropolis a gleam.
Greece, who am I that should remember thee, Thy Marathon and thy Thermopylæ? Is my life vulgar, my fate mean, Which on such golden memories can lean?