THE HIGH TIDE
(After Elvet Lewis, a contemporary Welsh poet)
| A balmy air blows;
the waterflags shiver, On, on the Tide flows, on, on, up the river! To no earth or sky allegiance he oweth; He comes, who knows why? unless the Moon knoweth. The Tide flows and flows; by hill and by hollow, White rose upon rose, the foam flowers follow. He spreads broad and full from margent to margent, The wings of the gull are his bannerets argent. The Tide flows and flows; Atlantic's loud charges Mix in murmurous close with the wash of the barges. With wondering ear the children cease playing; The voice that they hear, what can it be saying? Too well they shall know, when amid the wild brattle Of the waters below, they enter life's battle. The Tide flows apace; the ship that lies idle Trips out with trim grace, like a bride to her bridal. What hath she in store? shall Fate her boon give her? Or must she no more return to the river? The flood has gone past! Ah me! one was late for it, And friends cry aghast: "How long must he wait for it?" Young eyes that to-night are darkened for sorrow Shall hail with delight their dear ship to-morrow. Amid the sea-wrack the barque, tempest battered, At length staggers back, like a prodigal tattered! [100] What if she be scarred or scoffers make light of her? Though blemished and marred, how blest is the sight of her! The Tide flows and flows, far past the grey towers; And whispering goes through the wheat and the flowers. And now his pulse takes the calm heart of the valley And lifts, till it shakes, the low bough of the sally. Slow, and more slow is his flow—he has tarried— The blue Ocean's pilgrim, outwearied, miscarried! Far, far from home, in wandering error, A dim rocky dome beshrouding his mirror. But hark! a voice thrills the traveller erring; In the heart of the hills its sea-call is stirring: And home, ever home, to its passionate pleading, One whirl of white foam, with the ebb he is speeding. |