SEA SPRAY &> SMOKE DRIFT 



Throueh the tent's wide entrance stream- 



ing, 

 In a flood of glory rare, 

 Glides the golden sunset, gleaming 

 On your golden gleaming hair. 



Chide him not, the leech who tarries, 



Surest aid were all too late ; 

 Surer far the shaft of Paris, 



Winged by Phoebus and by fate ; 

 When he crouch'd behind the gable, 



Had I once his features scann'd, 

 Phoebus' self had scarce been able 



To have nerved his trembling hand. 



Blue-eyed maiden ! dear Athena ! 



Goddess chaste, and wise, and brave, 

 From the snares of Polyxena 



Thou would'st fain thy favourite save. 

 Tell me, is it not far better 



That it should be as it is ? 

 Jove's behests we cannot fetter, 



Fate's decrees are always his. 



Many seek for peace and riches, 

 Length of days and life of ease ; 



