By wreaths of mist The vales are kissed— Fair, floating clouds of amethyst, That follow on, Through shade and sun, Where’er the river’s course may run.
Here, looking down On roof-trees brown, I catch fair glimpses of the town. There, far away, The shadows play On crags and bowlders, huge and gray.
All whispering low, The breezes go— The wandering birds flit to and fro; Winged motes float by Me as I lie, And yellow leaves drop silently.
The morn, the noon, Have fled too soon— Delay, O golden afternoon, While with rapt eyes My spirit flies From yon blue peaks to Paradise!
THE LADY OF THE PROW
BERMUDA, MAY, 1883
The salt tides ebb, the salt tides flow, From the near isles the soft airs blow; From leagues remote, with roar and din, Over the reefs the waves rush in; The wild white breakers foam and fret, Day follows day, stars rise and set; Yet, grandly poised, as calm and fair As some proud spirit of the air, Unmoved she lifts her radiant brow— She, the White Lady of the Prow!
The winds blow east, the winds blow west, From woodlands low to the eagle’s nest; The winds blow north, the winds blow south. To steal the sweets from the lily’s mouth! We come and go; we spread our sails Like sea-gulls to the favoring gales; Or, soft and slow, our oars we dip Under the lee of the stranded ship. Yet little recks she when or how, The grand White Lady of the Prow.
We laugh, we love, we smile, we sigh, But never she heeds as we glide by— Never she cares for our idle ways Nor turns from the brink of the world her gaze! What does she see when her steadfast eyes Peer into the sunset mysteries, And all the secrets of time and space Seem unfolded before her face? What does she hear when, pale and calm, She lists for the great sea’s evening psalm?
Speak, Lady, speak! Thy sealèd lip, Thou fair white spirit of the ship, Could tell such tales of high emprise, Of valorous deeds and counsels wise! What prince shall rouse thee from thy trance, And meet thy first revealing glance, Or what Pygmalion from her sleep Bid Galatea wake and weep? The wave’s wild passion stirs thee not— Oh, is thy life’s long love forgot?
How canst thou bear this trancèd calm By sunlit isles of bloom and balm— Thou who hast sailed the utmost seas, Empress alike of wave and breeze; Thou who hast swept from pole to pole, Where the great surges swell and roll; Breasted the billows white with wrath, Rode in the tempest’s fiery path, And proudly borne to waiting hands The glorious spoil of farthest lands?