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From the rock-throne, above the murky torrid, Where the wan froth moves the mighty billow, The siren weeps a psalm, The rimeless plea of her mothers before her Laments of loneliness no human fears. Her aver-cry, heard by all who wander, Softly pries lives from their paths; But, lo, the lover for whom she yearns, Harks the same seductive curse. Ensnared is he in the crushing dark, From where emotions lie. Cursed is the siren, For she weeps one song, And knows no other. |
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