Aylwin

Excerpt

CAUGHT IN THE EBBING TIDE

A REMINISCENCE OF RAXTOX CLIFFS

The mightiest Titan's stroke could not withstand
  An ebbing tide like this. These swirls denote
  How wind and tide conspire. I can but float
To the open sea and strike no more for land.
Farewell, brown cliffs, farewell, beloved sand
  Her feet have pressed—farewell, dear little boat
  Where Gelert,[Footnote] calmly sitting on my coat,
Unconscious of my peril, gazes bland!

All dangers grip me save the deadliest, fear:
  Yet these air-pictures of the past that glide—
  These death-mirages o'er the heaving tide—
Showing two lovers in an alcove clear,
  Will break my heart. I see them and I hear
As there they sit at morning, side by side.

[Footnote: A famous swimming dog.]

THE VISION

_With Barton elms behind—in front the sea,
  Sitting in rosy light in that alcove,
They hear the first lark rise o'er Raxton Grove:
'What should I do with fame, dear heart?' says he,
'You talk of fame, poetic fame, to me
  Whose crown is not of laurel but of love—
  To me who would not give this little glove
On this dear hand for Shakespeare's dower in fee.

While, rising red and kindling every billow,
  The sun's shield shines 'neath many a golden spear,
To lean with you, against this leafy pillow,
  To murmur words of love in this loved ear—
To feel you bending like a bending willow,
  This is to be a poet—this, my dear!'_

O God, to die and leave her—die and leave
  The heaven so lately won!—And then, to know
  What misery will be hers—what lonely woe!—
To see the bright eyes weep, to see her grieve
Will make me a coward as I sink, and cleave
  To life though Destiny has bid me go.
  How shall I bear the pictures that will glow
Above the glowing billows as they heave?

One picture fades, and now above the spray
  Another shines: ah, do I know the bowers
  Where yon sweet woman stands—the woodland flowers,
In that bright wreath of grass and new-mown hay—
  That birthday wreath I wove when earthly hours
Wore angel-wings,—till portents brought dismay?

Shall I turn coward here who sailed with Death
  Through many a tempest on mine own North Sea,
  And quail like him of old who bowed the knee—
Faithless—to billows of Genesereth?
Did I turn coward when my very breath
  Froze on my lips that Alpine night when He
  Stood glimmering there, the Skeleton, with me,
While avalanches rolled from peaks beneath?

Each billow bears me nearer to the verge
  Of realms where she is not—where love must wait.
If Gelert, there, could hear, no need to urge
  That friend, so faithful, true, affectionate,
  To come and help me, or to share my fate.
Ah! surely I see him springing through the surge.
       [The dog, plunging into the tide and striking
            towards his master with immense strength,
            reaches him and swims round him.]

Oh, Gelert, strong of wind and strong of paw,
  Here gazing like your namesake, 'Snowdon's Hound,'
  When great Llewelyn's child could not be found,
And all the warriors stood in speechless awe—
Mute as your namesake when his master saw
  The cradle tossed—the rushes red around—
  With never a word, but only a whimpering sound
To tell what meant the blood on lip and jaw...!