His harp's solemn swell;
Till his eye darkened,
And lifeless he fell.





THE HIGH TIDE

(After Elvet Lewis, a contemporary Welsh poet)


A balmy air blows; the waterflags shiver,
On, on the Tide flows, on, on, up the river!

To no earth or sky allegiance he oweth;
He comes, who knows why? unless the Moon knoweth.

The Tide flows and flows; by hill and by hollow,
White rose upon rose, the foam flowers follow.

He spreads broad and full from margent to margent,
The wings of the gull are his bannerets argent.

The Tide flows and flows; Atlantic's loud charges
Mix in murmurous close with the wash of the barges.

With wondering ear the children cease playing;
The voice that they hear, what can it be saying?