No longer in a glittering morn
Their misty meadows flicker nigh,
No singing with the spray is borne,
All that is long gone by.

To-day upon the golden beach
No gold-haired guardian maidens stand,
No apples ripen out of reach,
And none are mad to land.

The merchant-men, 'tis they say so,
That trade across the western seas,
In hurried transit to and fro,
About Hesperides.

But, Reader, not as these thou art,
So, loose thy shallop from its hold,
And, trusting to the ancient chart,
Thou 'It make them as of old.




JENNY DEAD

Like a flower in the frost
Sweet Jenny lies,
With her frail hands calmly crossed,
And close-shut eyes.