Chapter IV

Joy! O joy! the dawning sea Answers to the dawning sky, Foretaste of the coming glee When the sun will lord it high! See the swelling radiance growing To a dazzling glory-might! See the shadows gently going 'Twixt the wave-tops wild with light!

Hear the smiting billows clang! See the falling billows lean Half a watery vault, and hang Gleaming with translucent green, Then in thousand fleeces fall, Thundering light upon the strand!-- This the whiteness which did call Through the dusk, across the land!

See, a boat! Out, out we dance! Fierce blasts swoop upon my sail! What a terrible expanse-- Tumbling hill and heaving dale! Stayless, helpless, lost I float, Captive to the lawless free! But a prison is my boat! Oh, for petrel-wings to flee!

Look below: each watery whirl Cast in beauty's living mould! Look above: each feathery curl Dropping crimson, dropping gold!-- Oh, I tremble in the flush Of the everlasting youth! Love and awe together rush: I am free in God, the Truth!

_THE TREE'S PRAYER_.

Alas, 'tis cold and dark! The wind all night hath sung a wintry tune! Hail from black clouds that swallowed up the moon Beat, beat against my bark.

Oh! why delays the spring? Not yet the sap moves in my frozen veins; Through all my stiffened roots creep numbing pains, That I can hardly cling.

The sun shone yester-morn; I felt the glow down every fibre float, And thought I heard a thrush's piping note Of dim dream-gladness born.

Then, on the salt gale driven, The streaming cloud hissed through my outstretched arms, Tossed me about in slanting snowy swarms, And blotted out the heaven.

All night I brood and choose Among past joys. Oh, for the breath of June! The feathery light-flakes quavering from the moon The slow baptizing dews!

Oh, the joy-frantic birds!-- They are the tongues of us, mute, longing trees! Aha, the billowy odours! and the bees That browse like scattered herds!

The comfort-whispering showers That thrill with gratefulness my youngest shoot! The children playing round my deep-sunk root, Green-caved from burning hours!

See, see the heartless dawn, With naked, chilly arms latticed across! Another weary day of moaning loss On the thin-shadowed lawn!

But icy winter's past; Yea, climbing suns persuade the relenting wind: I will endure with steadfast, patient mind; My leaves _will_ come at last!

_WERE I A SKILFUL PAINTER._

Were I a skilful painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and fear, And who would blame me then?-- Fear of the tide of darkness That floweth fast behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind.

Were I a skilful painter, What should I paint for thee?-- A tiny spring-bud peeping out From a withered wintry tree; The warm blue sky of summer O'er jagged ice and snow, And water hurrying gladsome out From a cavern down below;

The dim light of a beacon Upon a stormy sea, Where a lonely ship to windward beats For life and liberty; A watery sun-ray gleaming Athwart a sullen cloud And falling on some grassy flower The rain had earthward bowed;

Morn peeping o'er a mountain, In ambush for the dark, And a traveller in the vale below Rejoicing like a lark; A taper nearly vanished Amid the dawning gray, And a maiden lifting up her head, And lo, the coming day!

I am no skilful painter; Let who will blame me then That I would teach thee hope and fear With my plain-talking pen!-- Fear of the tide of darkness That floweth fast behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind.

_FAR AND NEAR_. [The fact which suggested this poem is related by Clarke in his Travels.]

I.

Blue sky above, blue sea below,
Far off, the old Nile's mouth,
'Twas a blue world, wherein did blow
A soft wind from the south.

In great and solemn heaves the mass
Of pulsing ocean beat,
Unwrinkled as the sea of glass
Beneath the holy feet.

With forward leaning of desire
The ship sped calmly on,
A pilgrim strong that would not tire
Or hasten to be gone.

II.

List!--on the wave!--what can they be,
Those sounds that hither glide?
No lovers whisper tremulously
Under the ship's round side!

No sail across the dark blue sphere
Holds white obedient way;
No far-fled, sharp-winged boat is near,
No following fish at play!

'Tis not the rippling of the wave,
Nor sighing of the cords;
No winds or waters ever gave
A murmur so like words;

Nor wings of birds that northward strain,
Nor talk of hidden crew:
The traveller questioned, but in vain--
He found no answer true.

III.

A hundred level miles away,
On Egypt's troubled shore,
Two nations fought, that sunny day,
With bellowing cannons' roar.

The fluttering whisper, low and near,
Was that far battle's blare;
A lipping, rippling motion here,
The blasting thunder there.