Town and Harbour of Ithaca

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 carved gates;
Where the suitors drained the chalice,
     Mocking at the Fates.
⁠⁠             Stern, and dark, and veiled are they.
Still their silent thread entwining
     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

’Tis a vain and cold invention,
     ’Tis 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