The Sun.
London, England, 1865-08-22 00:00:00

THE SIREN.

An Allegorical Poem. By Robt. Buchanan,

The following exquisite Poem—thrown in seem-
ingly as a mere make-weight—appears for the first
time in the Second Edition of Mr. Robt. Buchanan's
" Undertones." It is a noble and affecting allegory
of Human Life, called The Siren, written in the
form of a dialogue between herself (i. e., the Siren)
and Eumolpus

EUMOLPUS.
Is it the voice of mine own Soul I hear?

Or some white sibyl of the sphered ocean?
And are these living limbs that lie so near,
Clinging around me with a serpent-motion ?
Is this a tress of yellow yellow hair,
Around my finger in a ring enfolden ?
Whose face is this, so musically fair,
That swoons upon my ken thro' vapours golden ?
What sad song withers on the odorous air ?
Where am I, where ?
Where is my country and that vision olden ?

THE SIREN.
I sang thee hither in thy bark to land

With deftly warbled measure,
I wove a witch's spell with fluttering hand,
Till thou wert drunken, Dearest, with much pleasure.
At hush of noon I had thee at my knee,
And round thy finger pink I wound a curl,
And singing smiled beneath with teeth of pearl,
Of what had been, -what was, and what should be.
Sang dying ditties three !
And lo ! thy blood was ravished with the theme,
And lo ! thy face was pale with drowsy dream,
While stooping low, with rich lips tremulous, .
I kissed thee thus!—and thus !

EUMOLPUS.

Thy kisses trance me to a vision wan
Of what hath been and never more will be.
0 little fishing-town Sicilian,
I can behold thee sitting by the sea!
O little red-tiled town whore I was born !
0 days ere yet I sail'd from mortal ken !
Why did I launch upon the deep forlorn,
Nor fish in shallow pools with simple men ?
It was a charm ; for while I rockt at ease
Within our little bay,
There came a melody across the seas
From regions far away;
And ah ! I fell into a swooning sleep,
And all the world had changed before I knew—
And I awoke upon a glassy deep
With not a speck of land to break the view,
Aud tho' I was alone, I did not weep,
For I was singing too !
I sang ! I sang ! and with mine oars kept time
Unto the rude sweet rhyme,
And went a-sailing on into the west
Blown on by airs divine,
Singing for ever on a wild-eyed quest
For that immortal minstrel feminine ;
And night and day went past, until I lost:
All count of time, yet still did melodise ;
And sun and stars beheld me from their skies ;
And ships swam by me, from whose decks storm-tost
Rude seamen gazed with terror-glazed eyes.
And still I found not her for whom I sought,
Yet smiled without annoy,
To ply the easy oar, and take no thought,
And sing, was such sweet joy!—
Then Tempest came, and to and from the sky
I rose and fell in that frail bark of mine,
While the snake Lightning, with its blank bright eye,
Writhed fierily in swift coils serpentine
Along the slippery brine ;
And there were days when dismal sobbing Rain
Made melancholy music for the brain,
And hours when I shriek'd out, and wept in woe
Prison'd about by chilly still affright,
While all around dropt hushed flakes of Snow
Melting and mingling down blue chasms of night.
Yet, evermore, I heard that voice sublime
Twining afar its weirdly woven song,
And ever, ever more, mine oars kept time,
And evermore I uttered in song
My yearnings sad or merry, faint or strong.
Ah me ! my love for her afar away,
My yearning and my burning, night and day !
In dreams alone, I met her in still lands,
And knelt in tears before her,
And could not sing, but only wring mine hands,
Adore her and implore her !

Yet day and night sped on, and I grew old
Before I knew ; and lo !
My hands were wither'd, on my bosom cold
There droopt a beard of snow,—
And raising hands I shriek'd, I cried a curse
On that weird voice that twined me from home ;
And echoes of the awful universe
Answer'd me ; and the deep with lips of foam
Mock'd me and spat upon me ; and the things
That people ocean rose and threatened ill,
Yea, also air-born harpies waving wings,
Because I could not sing to charm them still.
I was alone, the shadow of a man,
Haunting the trackless waste of waves forlorn,
Blown on by pitiless rains and vapours wan,
Plaining for that small town Sicilian,
Where, in the sweet beginning, I was born !
TIIE SIREN.
Ah, weep not, Dearest ! lean upon my breast,
While sunset darkens stilly,
And Dian poises o'er the slumberous west
Her silver sickle chilly ;
The eyes of heaven are opening, the leaves
Fold silver-dewy round the closing roses,
In lines 'of foam the breaking billow heaves.
Each thing that gladdens and each thing that grieves
Dip slow to dark reposes.

EUMOLPUS.
0 voice that lured me on, I know thee now !
0 melancholy eyes, ye mildly beam !
0 kiss, thy touch is dewy on my brow !
Sweet Spirit of my dream!

THE SIREN.
Name thy love, and I am she,
Name thy woe, and look on me,
Name the weary melody
That led thee hither o'er the sea—
Then call to mind my ditties three
Of what have been, what is, and what shall be !

EUMOLPUS.
Thou art the gentle witch that men call Death !
Ah, Beauteous, I am weary, and would rest !

THE SIREN.
Lie very softly, Sweet, and let thy breath
Fade calmly on n'y breast !
Call me Love or call me Fame,
Call me Death or Poesy,
Call me by whatever name
Seemeth sweetest unto thee :
I anoint thee, I caress thee,
With my dark reposes bless thee,
I redeem thee, I possess thee !
I can never more forsake thee !
Slumber, slumber, peacefully,
Slumber calm and dream of me,
Till I touch thee, and awake thee !

EUMOLPITS.
Diviner far than song divine can tell !
Thine eyes are dim with dreams of that awaking !
Yea, let me slumber, for my heart is breaking
With too much love. Farewell ! farewell ! farewell!

THE SIREN.
Charmed sight and charmed Eound
Close the weary one around !
Charmed dream of charmed sleep
Make his waiting sweet and deep !
Husht be all things ! Lot the spell
Duskly on his eyelids dwell !

EUMOLFIJS.
Farewell ! farewell ! farewell!

THE SIREN.
0 melancholy waters, softly flow !
0 Stars, shine softly, dropping dewy balm!
0 Moon walk on in sandals white as snow!
0 Winds, be calm, be calm !
For he is tired with wandering to and fro,
Yea, weary with unrest to see and know.
If this be not poetry, we know not what is
poetry.

THE NEW LAW COURTS.—Yesterday, and for
some days past, workmen were busily employed in con-
verting the old Insolvent Debtors' Court, in Portugal-
street, into a court for the commissioners appointed in
connection with the new law courts. Considerable altera-
tions are being made for the accommodation of the
public. The commissioners, it is expected, will commence
business in about a month or six weeks, towards the end
of the long vacation.
THE PRECISE SPOT WHERE THE MARTYRS WERE
BURNED AT SMITHFIELD.—Chester, in his "Life of
John Rogers," vicar of St. Sepulchre, who was the first
martyr to the Christian faith in Smithfield, writing of the
spot in Smithfield where he suffered, says :—" The precise
spot where the fatal stake was usually planted in Smith-
field has been sufficiently identified. For a long time a
square piece of pavement, composed of stones of a dark
colour, a few paces in front of the entrance gate of the
church of St. Bartholomew (the (treat), traditionally
marked the locality. In the year 1849, during the progress
of certain excavations, this pavement was removed, and
beneath it, at the distance of about three feet, were found
a number of rough stones and a quantity of ashes, in the
midst of which were discovered a few charred and par,
tially destroyed bones. This spot accords exactly with
the one designated in old engravings of those times, and
there can scarcely be a doubt of its identity." Two of
those are to be found in the work, one representing the
burning of Anne Askew and two others, in 1546 (published
in 1563), and the other showing the spot where the relics
were discovered.—City Prue.