BY another light surrounded

Than our actual sky;

With the purple ocean bounded

Does the island lie

            Like a dream of the old world.

Bare the rugged heights ascending

Bring to mind the past,

When, the weary voyage ending,

Was the anchor cast,

            And the stranger sails were furled

            Beside the glorious island

            Where Ulysses was the king.

 

Still does Fancy see the palace

With its carvéd gates;

Where the suitors drained the chalice,

Mocking at the Fates.

            Stern and dark and veiled are they,

Still their silent thread intwining

Of our wretched life;

With their cold, pale hands combining

Hate and fear and strife.

            Hovers the avenging day

            O’er the glorious island

            Where Ulysses was the king.

 

Grant my fancy pardon

If amid these trees

Still it sees the garden

Of old Laertes,

            Where he met his glorious son.

The apple boughs were drooping

Beneath their rosy fruit,

And the rich brown pears were stooping

To the old man at their foot,

            While his daily task was done

            In the glorious island

            Where Ulysses was the king.

 

’T is a vain and cold invention,

’T is the spirit’s wrong,

Which to some small mind’s pretension

Would subdue that song,

            Shrined in manhood’s general heart.

One almighty mind, one only,

Could such strain have sung;

Ever be the laurel lonely

Where such lyre is hung.

            Be the world a thing apart

            Of the glorious island

            Where Ulysses was the king.