[In memoriam H. B.]
Westward I watch the low green hills of Wales, The low sky silver grey, The turbid Channel with the wandering sails Moans through the winter day.
There is no colour but one ashen light On tower and lonely tree, The little church upon the windy height Is grey as sky or sea.
But there hath he that woke the sleepless Love Slept through these fifty years, There is the grave that has been wept above With more than mortal tears.
And far below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain, As Hallam's dirge through all the years must keep Its monotone of pain.
* * * * *
Grey sky, brown waters, as a bird that flies, My heart flits forth from these Back to the winter rose of northern skies, Back to the northern seas.
And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat Below the minster grey, Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet, And knees of them that pray.
And I remember me how twain were one Beside that ocean dim, I count the years passed over since the sun That lights me looked on him, And dreaming of the voice that, save in sleep, Shall greet me not again, Far, far below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain.
TWILIGHT ON TWEED.
Three crests against the saffron sky, Beyond the purple plain, The kind remembered melody Of Tweed once more again.
Wan water from the border hills, Dear voice from the old years, Thy distant music lulls and stills, And moves to quiet tears.
Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood Fleets through the dusky land;Where Scott, come home to die, has stood, My feet returning stand.
A mist of memory broods and floats, The Border waters flow;The air is full of ballad notes, Borne out of long ago.
Old songs that sung themselves to me, Sweet through a boy's day dream, While trout below the blossom'd tree Plashed in the golden steam.
* * * * *
Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill, Fair and too fair you be;You tell me that the voice is still That should have welcomed me.
1870.
