LOW TIDE. 173 LOW TIDE. NDER the cliff I walk in silence, UNDER While the intrepid waters flow, And the white birds, lit by the sun into silver, And the tide is low. Here, years ago, in golden weather, And the tide was low. Only a little year fled by after, Then my bride and I came once more, And saw the sea, like a bird imprisoned, Beating its wings 'gainst its bars, the shore; And the tide was low. Now I walk alone by the filmy breakers, - HENRY ABBEY. O DONALD. MY white, white, light moon, that sailest in the sky, Look down upon the whirling world, for thou art up so high, And tell me where my Donald is who sailed across the sea, And make a path of silver light to lead him back to me. O my white, white, bright moon, thy cheek is coldly fair, A little cloud beside thee seems thy wildly floating hair; And if thou wouldst not have me grow as white and cold as thee, Go, make a mighty tide to draw my Donald back to me. O my light, white, bright moon, that doth so fondly shine, There is not a lily in the world but hides its face from thine; I too shall go and hide my face close in the dust from thee, Unless with light and tide thou bring my Donald back to me. HENRY ABBEY. THE LAND-SICK. 175 GRE THE LAND-SICK. REEN fields are about me with hill and plain, I long for the blue and billowy main, And instead of these harvests of waving grain The swallow is twittering my window by, I hear the laugh and the revelling shout But the silvery dolphin seems sporting about, With their "church-going bells," my ears they tire, Give me the tall mast for the tapering spire, They point to the woodlands, and rocks so gray And then, when the broad harvest-moon one sees Climb up in the eastern sky, He thinks what bright watches on deck are these, With the mizzen-top-gallant swelled full by the breeze, And the star-spangled waves dancing by. They call this home, and they whisper me That my thoughts are but truants now; Or the shade of the orange-bough! E. W. B. CANNING. BY THE SEA. LOWLY, steadily, under the moon, SLO Swings the tide, in its old-time way; Never too late, and never too soon, And the evening and morning make the day. Slowly, steadily, over the sands, And over the rocks, to fall and flow, And this wave has touched a dead man's hands, And that one has seen a face we know. They have borne the good ship on her way, Ah, who shall interpret their message aright? BY THE SEA. For their separate voices of grief and cheer Slowly, steadily, to and fro, Swings our life in its weary way; 177 And the evening and morning make the day. Sorrow and happiness, peace and strife, Yet to the ear of God it swells, And to the blessed round the throne, BY THE SEA. ANON. I WALKED with her I love by the sea. The deep came up with its chanting waves, Making a music so great and free That the will and the faith, which were dead in me, Awoke and rose from their graves. |