Andromeda and Other Poems Part 7

THE SANDS OF DEE

'O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee;'

The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she.

'Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee.'

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee.

Eversley, 1849.

THE TIDE ROCK

How sleeps yon rock, whose half-day's bath is done.

With broad blight side beneath the broad bright sun, Like sea-nymph tired, on cus.h.i.+oned mosses sleeping.

Yet, nearer drawn, beneath her purple tresses From drooping brows we find her slowly weeping.

So many a wife for cruel man's caresses Must inly pine and pine, yet outward bear A gallant front to this world's gaudy glare.

Ilfracombe, 1849.

ELEGIACS

Wearily stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge to the cloudland; Wearily onward I ride, watching the water alone.

Not as of old, like Homeric Achilles, ??de? ya???, Joyous knight-errant of G.o.d, thirsting for labour and strife; No more on magical steed borne free through the regions of ether, But, like the hack which I ride, selling my sinew for gold.

Fruit-bearing autumn is gone; let the sad quiet winter hang o'er me-- What were the spring to a soul laden with sorrow and shame?

Blossoms would fret me with beauty; my heart has no time to bepraise them; Gray rock, bough, surge, cloud, waken no yearning within.

Sing not, thou sky-lark above! even angels pa.s.s hushed by the weeper.

Scream on, ye sea-fowl! my heart echoes your desolate cry.

Sweep the dry sand on, thou wild wind, to drift o'er the sh.e.l.l and the sea- weed; Sea-weed and sh.e.l.l, like my dreams, swept down the pitiless tide.

Just is the wave which uptore us; 'tis Nature's own law which condemns us; Woe to the weak who, in pride, build on the faith of the sand!

Joy to the oak of the mountain: he trusts to the might of the rock-clefts; Deeply he mines, and in peace feeds on the wealth of the stone.

Morte Sands, Devons.h.i.+re, February 1849.

DARTSIDE

I cannot tell what you say, green leaves, I cannot tell what you say: But I know that there is a spirit in you, And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks, I cannot tell what you say: But I know that there is a spirit in you, And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, brown streams, I cannot tell what you say: But I know that in you too a spirit doth live, And a word doth speak this day.

'Oh green is the colour of faith and truth, And rose the colour of love and youth, And brown of the fruitful clay.

Sweet Earth is faithful, and fruitful, and young, And her bridal day shall come ere long, And you shall know what the rocks and the streams And the whispering woodlands say.'

Drew's Teignton, Dartmoor, July 31, 1849.

MY HUNTING SONG

Forward! Hark forward's the cry!

One more fence and we're out on the open, So to us at once, if you want to live near us!

Hark to them, ride to them, beauties! as on they go, Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below!

Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye is slow, Find themselves staring alone.

So the great cause flashes by; Nearer and clearer its purposes open, While louder and prouder the world-echoes cheer us: Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us, Lead us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us-- We cannot call the hounds off, and no shame to us-- Don't be left staring alone!

Eversley, 1849.

ALTON LOCKE'S SONG

Weep, weep, weep and weep, For pauper, dolt, and slave!

Hark! from wasted moor and fen, Feverous alley, stifling den, Swells the wail of Saxon men-- Work! or the grave!

Down, down, down and down, With idler, knave, and tyrant!

Why for sluggards cark and moil?

He that will not live by toil Has no right on English soil!

G.o.d's word's our warrant!

Up, up, up and up!

Face your game and play it!

The night is past, behold the sun!

The idols fall, the lie is done!