Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/111

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WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.
107
 Isa. A subtle sprite and, now I think of it,Dost thou remember the old story toldBy Diaz Ortis, the lame mariner,Of an adventure in the Indian Seas,Where he made one with John of Portugal,Touching a woman of the ocean wave,That swam beside the barque, and sang strange songsOf riches in the waters; with a speechSo winning on the senses, that the crewGrew all infected with the melody;And, but for a good father of the church,Who made the sign of the cross, and offer'd upBefitting pray'rs, which drove the fiend away,They had been tempted by her cunning voiceTo leap into the ocean. Leon. I do, I do!And, at the time, I do remember me,I made much mirth of the extravagant tale,As a deceit of the reason: the old manBeing in his second childhood, and at fitsWild, as you know, on other themes than this. Isa. I never more shalt mock at marvellous things,Such strange conceits hath after-time found true,That once were themes for jest. I shall not smileAt the most monstrous legend. Leon. Nor will I:To any tale of mighty wondermentI shall bestow my ear, nor wonder more;And every fancy that my childhood bred,In vagrant dreams of frolic, I shall lookTo have, without rebuke, my sense approve.Thus, like a little island in the sea,Girt in by perilous waters, and unknownTo all adventure, may be yon same cloud,Specking, with fleecy bosom, the blue sky,Lit by the rising moon. There we may dream,And find no censure in an after day—Throng the assembled fairies, perch'd on beams,And riding on their way triumphantly.
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