Too well they shall know, when amid the wild brattle
Of the waters below, they enter life's battle.

The Tide flows apace; the ship that lies idle
Trips out with trim grace, like a bride to her bridal.

What hath she in store? shall Fate her boon give her?
Or must she no more return to the river?

The flood has gone past! Ah me! one was late for it,
And friends cry aghast: "How long must he wait for it?"

Young eyes that to-night are darkened for sorrow
Shall hail with delight their dear ship to-morrow.

Amid the sea-wrack the barque, tempest battered,
At length staggers back, like a prodigal tattered!

What if she be scarred or scoffers make light of her?
Though blemished and marred, how blest is the sight of her!

The Tide flows and flows, far past the grey towers;
And whispering goes through the wheat and the flowers.

And now his pulse takes the calm heart of the valley
And lifts, till it shakes, the low bough of the sally.

Slow, and more slow is his flow--he has tarried--
The blue Ocean's pilgrim, outwearied, miscarried!