# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1631/θάλασσα! θάλασσα!

* θάλασσα! θάλασσα!
* Here is no common sea.
* On sweeps the brave Greek galley, and the main
* Resounds with rhythmic beat of oar and song.
* Who rules the wave but we?
* Back, Tyrian traders! bear ye back again
* Cedar and myrrh, and purple sails that long
* For our light breeze, who loves the Greek alone,
* Since first on all her coasts the light of Hellas shone.
* The dimpled sea for us, for us the laughing sea!
* Nor unsunned deeps are here, nor mountains dim;
* But by a wondrous shore,
* Warm with sweet light and soft with bush and tree,
* We lift our joyous hymn,
* And ever more and more
* Feel the live leap of oars that smite the plain,
* For merry Greeks are we, and spring is come again.
* Leap on, good boat, leap on — we are hot — with love
* For the wide streets of marble Sybaris,
* And 'mid the crowd would stand
* To see the light white cloaks, and curls that move
* On lighter air. No fairer show than this
* Moves on the Attic strand;
* No steeds more spotless draw the car of day
* Than these gold-hooved that ring along the sacred way.
* Full many a youth is there,
* Who lies in roses, fearful lest the sun
* Slip through the screen to burn his forehead pale;
* 'Twere well these warriors fair
* Should ride with us, and ere the day be done
* Breathe the brave sea-smell on the quickening gale.
* Or at noontide when we move lazily
* Should feel the broad bare light strike from the burnished sea.
* O the fair shore,
* All thronged and mystical with olive sheen!
* And here a passion of white blossom glows,
* And here is wondrous store
* Of rosier bloom, and from the tender green
* Of the new leaves peeps out the brier rose;
* Gleams the pale lemon on pale lemon-trees,
* And golden-ripe the fruit of famed Hesperides.
* Look, Agathon! Beside the silver-grey
* Of yon blunt olive — look! What is't that hies?
* The flutter of white raiment — nymph or maid?
* Haste, Petale, away!
* For where a pool in shadowed hollow lies
* The young Narcissus in his hair doth braid
* Bright new-born flowers, and the boy, I ween.
* Will die for his own love, if thou wilt not be seen.
* See, in the cleft between those soft brown hills.
* How the goats clamber! See
* The long-cloaked herdsman, how he strides before!
* Herdsman? 'Tis Phœbus leads them by the rills.
* If such a thing may be.
* Push in, old pilot, nearer to the shore.
* For we would see this god in country guise,
* Who toils awhile with men ere yet he mount the skies.
* The hills are all alive!
* The fauns are out, and from the soft low brake
* A satyr peers, a njrmph starts up to fly.
* Where the light shadows drive
* Along the slope, oh! doth he sleep or wake.
* Who in such utter stillness there doth lie.
* That the lithe lizard darts across his breast.
* And o'er him hangs the lark with rapture half-expressed?
* Methinks from out the vineyard cold and bare
* He hither stole to dream
* Of autumn's glory and the laden vine.
* Swinging from tree to tree in drowsy air.
* And vats o'erbrimmed with purple. Well I deem
* 'Tis Ampelus who loves the lord of wine,
* 'Tis young-eyed Ampelus who slumbers here,
* And sees 'mid all his rout the jocund god appear.
* Wreathe round him, dancing nymphs in order meet,
* And wake him slowly with your low-voiced song,
* And with arms, voices, feet,
* In harmony the tender strain prolong,
* Till ope those eyes for laughter once again.
* And the young faun in glee leaps down toward the main.
* Alas! we rest not here.
* Nor dream with him beside the sunny shore.
* What if we dare a splendid deed — to fly
* Beyond the Italian coasts, nor longer fear
* The outer ocean, and so come no more
* In these safe seas to lie.
* But, passing o'er the waters wild and grey.
* Find a new race to rule beyond the dying day.
* More knowledge still we seek.
* More potent arts to sway the souls of men:
* Beyond far western seas perchance may dwell
* New scholars for the Greek,
* New place for temples fair on hill or glen;
* Methinks the mighty waters swell
* With prophecy; and where the sun sinks down.
* Slow rises, like a mist, full many a stately town.
* Vain, vain! rash tongue beware!
* Is there no god to scourge us for our pride?
* Let us be wise, my Agathon, nor dare
* On unknown course so frail a bark to guide.
* When thou and I are on the inland sea.
* What place in all the world so fair for me and thee?
* Shake out the sail,
* And cease with toiling oar to vex the foam:
* The shade creeps up the hill, a single star
* In the deep sky is pale:
* The goats move slowly home;
* And from the rocks afar.
* Where, like a waving veil, the thin mist clings.
* Sweet as a dream of old the fabled siren sings.
* J. R. S.
* Blackwood's Magazine.