For one fait Vision ever fled

Down the waste waters day and night;
And still we followed where she led,
In hope to gain upon her flight.
Her face was evermore unseen,

And fixt upon the far sea line;
But each man murmured 'O my Queen
I follow till I make thee mine.'

TENNYSON, The Voyage.

Namque fugax visa est, specie pulcherrima, Quædam
Cedere per vastas nocte dieque vias:

Hanc avidi-spes urget enim prævertere euntem-
Insequimur miram per freta longa ducem.
Nec tamen et vultum fas aspexisse: supremo
Ora tenet semper limine fixa salis:

Quæ voto optantes mussamus quisque: 'Magistra
Tu, Diva, errandi, tu mihi finis eris.'

XV.

RISEST thou thus, dim dawn, again,
So loud with voices of the birds,
So thick with lowings of the herds,
Day, when I lost the flower of men;

Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red

On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles fast
By meadows breathing of the past,
And woodlands holy to the dead;

Who murmurest in the foliaged caves
A song that slights the coming care,
And Autumn laying here and there
A fiery finger on the leaves;

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath
To myriads on the genial earth,
Memories of bridal or of birth,
And unto myriads more, of death.

O wheresoever those may be,

Betwixt the slumber of the poles,
To-day they count as kindred souls;
They know me not, but mourn with me.

TENNYSON, In Memoriam.

XV.

SIC tu resurgis, lux mihi lugubris,
Quâ morte raptus flos periit virûm?
Tot carmen argutum volucrum,
Totque boum tulit aura voces ?

Sic rupta nimbi murice luridi
Micas scatenti in vortice rivuli,

Qui prata defuncto sacrata

Prævehitur, memoresque lucos

Ævi prioris? siccine in ædium

Frondente tecto murmura succinis,

Oblita venturæque pestis,

Utque linat vagus igne frondes

Auctumnus; almisque halitibus mones Diversa mundo millia nuptias

Lucesque natales; vel acta

Funera commemoras amicûm ?

O quot dolentes terra animas polos
Inter quietos dissociaverit,

Angore non discorde nostro

Casum hodie sibi quæque luget.

XVI.

O SWALLOW, swallow, flying, flying south,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

O tell her, swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the south,
And dark and true and tender is the north.

O swallow, swallow, if I could follow and light
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,
And chirp and twitter twenty million loves.

O were I thou that she might take me in
And lay me in her bosom, and her heart
Would rock the snowy cradle, till I died.

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays

To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O tell her, swallow, that thy brood is flown.
Say to her I do but wanton in the south,
But in the north long since my nest is made.