Part 22 (1/2)

I cannot tell what change hath come to you To vex your splendid hair. I only know _One_ grief. The pa.s.sion left betwixt us two, Like some forsaken watchfire, burneth low.

'Tis sad to turn and find it dying so, Without a hope of resurrection! Yet, O radiant face that found me tired and lone!

I shall not for the dear, dead past forget The sweetest looks of all the summers gone.

Ah! time hath made familiar wild regret; For now the leaves are white in last year's bowers, And now doth sob along the ruined leas The homeless storm from saddened southern seas, While March sits weeping over withered flowers.

XII

Alfred Tennyson

The silvery dimness of a happy dream I've known of late. Methought where Byron moans, Like some wild gulf in melancholy zones, I pa.s.sed tear-blinded. Once a lurid gleam Of stormy sunset loitered on the sea, While, travelling troubled like a straitened stream, The voice of Sh.e.l.ley died away from me.

Still sore at heart, I reached a lake-lit lea.

And then the green-mossed glades with many a grove, Where lies the calm which Wordsworth used to love, And, lastly, Locksley Hall, from whence did rise A haunting song that blew and breathed and blew With rare delights. 'Twas _there_ I woke and knew The sumptuous comfort left in drowsy eyes.

Sutherland's Grave

-- * Sutherland: Forby Sutherland, one of Captain Cook's seamen, who died shortly after the _Endeavour_ anch.o.r.ed in Botany Bay, 1770.

He was the first Englishman buried in Australia.

All night long the sea out yonder--all night long the wailful sea, Vext of winds and many thunders, seeketh rest unceasingly!

Seeketh rest in dens of tempest, where, like one distraught with pain, Shouts the wild-eyed sprite, Confusion--seeketh rest, and moans in vain: Ah! but you should hear it calling, calling when the haggard sky Takes the darks and damps of Winter with the mournful marsh-fowl's cry; Even while the strong, swift torrents from the rainy ridges come Leaping down and breaking backwards--million-coloured shapes of foam!

Then, and then, the sea out yonder chiefly looketh for the boon Portioned to the pleasant valleys and the grave sweet summer moon: Boon of Peace, the still, the saintly spirit of the dew-dells deep-- Yellow dells and hollows haunted by the soft, dim dreams of sleep.

All night long the flying water breaks upon the stubborn rocks-- Ooze-filled forelands burnt and blackened, smit and scarred with lightning shocks; But above the tender sea-thrift, but beyond the flowering fern, Runs a little pathway westward--pathway quaint with turn on turn-- Westward trending, thus it leads to shelving sh.o.r.es and slopes of mist: Sleeping sh.o.r.es, and gla.s.sy bays of green and gold and amethyst!

_There_ tread gently--_gently_, pilgrim; _there_ with thoughtful eyes look round; Cross thy breast and bless the silence: lo, the place is holy ground!

Holy ground for ever, stranger! All the quiet silver lights Dropping from the starry heavens through the soft Australian nights-- Dropping on those lone grave-gra.s.ses--come serene, unbroken, clear, Like the love of G.o.d the Father, falling, falling, year by year!

Yea, and like a Voice supernal, _there_ the daily wind doth blow In the leaves above the sailor buried ninety years ago.

Syrinx

A heap of low, dark, rocky coast, Unknown to foot or feather!

A sea-voice moaning like a ghost; And fits of fiery weather!

The flying Syrinx turned and sped By dim, mysterious hollows, Where night is black, and day is red, And frost the fire-wind follows.

Strong, heavy footfalls in the wake Came up with flights of water: The G.o.ds were mournful for the sake Of Ladon's lovely daughter.