William Browne

The Sirens' Song

STEER, hither steer your winged pines,
        All beaten mariners!
Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
        A prey to passengers—
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.
        Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you save our lips;
        But come on shore,
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts,
        Where never storms arise,
Exchange, and be awhile our guests:
        For stars gaze on our eyes.
The compass Love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,
        We will not miss
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.
        —Then come on shore,
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.