They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, "We will return no more;"
And all at once they sang, "Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."
ALFRED TENNYSON.
MOLY.
"Moly" (mo'ly), by Edith M. Thomas (1850-), in the best possible
presentation of the value of integrity. This poem ranks with "Sir
Galahad," if not above it. It is a stroke of genius, and every American
ought to be proud of it. Every time my boys read "Odysseus" or the
story of Ulysses with me we read or learn "Moly." The plant moly grows
in the United States as well as in Europe.
Traveller, pluck a stem of moly,
If thou touch at Circe's isle,--
Hermes' moly, growing solely
To undo enchanter's wile!
When she proffers thee her chalice,--
Wine and spices mixed with malice,--
When she smites thee with her staff
To transform thee, do thou laugh!
Safe thou art if thou but bear
The least leaf of moly rare.
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