XIII.
Come! leave our pathway for to-day,
And turning inland, seek the woods,
Where last year’s sombre leaves decay
In brown sonorous solitudes;
The murmurous voice of those dark trees
Will teach us more than sun or seas,
And in that twilight we may find
Some golden flower of strange perfume,
A blossom hidden from the wind,
A flame within the tomb.
THE FOOTPATH.
You gave your hand to me, as through
The low scrub-growth that spanned
The Danes’ old tower, we caught anew
The sharp salt-burdened breeze that blew
Across the reach of sand.
Too proud! the grace you scorned to do,
Where scarce your foot could stand;—
’Twas but from sheer fatigue, I knew,
You gave your hand!
How well that scene comes back to view!
Your cheeks’ faint roses fanned,—
The gorge,—the twinkling seaward blue,
The black boats on the strand;
I gave you all my heart, and you—
You gave your hand.
A TURN OF THE TIDE.
Only a turn of the tide!
I was sitting here, by myself alone
On this rock, now hardly three hours agone,
With my book on my knees, and my eyes on the sea,
And my thoughts still further adrift, when he
So suddenly stood by my side.
The sun shone white on the sails,
The waves were dimpling and sparkling in light;
And I, my visions were almost as bright.
But a mist is now creeping along the shore,
And I shiver with cold—it is nothing more;
If it were—what now avails?
Only one turn of the tide!
He told me his love was so deep and strong,
That in saying him nay, I did him wrong,
That I had not the right his life to break,
And before I half knew the words I spake
I had promised to be his bride.
I can see his footprints yet;
Though the stealthy waves have almost effaced
From the sand’s dry bed the track they traced,
But I feel as if years had gone over my head,
As if I had died, and been raised from the dead,
Since those sands were glistening wet.
Only a turn of the tide!
Is it always so when our dreams come true?
Is the present so grey, and the future so blue?
Is the rainbow we chased nought but drizzling mist?
And the hope we hugged to our hearts and kiss’d,
Delusion, and nought beside?
I had liked him truly for years,
I know he is greater and nobler than I,
With a larger brain and a clearer eye;
That my life is of small account, if it give
Him comfort; but shall I, so long as I live,
Feel these half-unreasoning fears?
Ah me! one turn of the tide!
This morning I was a careless child,
So gay, so petted, so thoughtless and wild;
I’m content with my fate, but one more year
Of freedom would have been very dear.
Was it I, or the wind that sigh’d?
I thought so—here comes the rain,
The mist grows dense, and the clouds gather fast,
And the tide has covered the sands at last;
I must hasten, and think of regrets no more,
But—could all things be as they were before,
I would not promise again.
THE TURN OF THE TIDE.
Far up the shingle crept the cruel wave,
With seeming coy reluctance to his feet,
Which—faint with toiling in the noonday heat—
He let his foe with flattering murmur lave,
Nor sought to flee the cool and pleasant grave
Its soft arms laid about him, nor to cheat
The patient billow of its victim meet,
For he had lost all power himself to save.
When, while he waited, thinking death was slow,
Eyesight and hearing dim with tired despair,
The whisper of the sea grew faint and low,
And, waked by stirring of the evening air,
He rose, and saw the waves in sunset glow,
Gleaming far off in beauty new and rare.