THE FOOTPATH.

Remember how, the winter through, While all the ways were choked with mire, Half-maddened at the rain, we two Have nestled closer to the fire, And talk’d of all that should be done When April brought us back the sun, What gardens white with butterflies, What soft green nooks of budded heather, What moorlands open to the skies, We two would scour together!

And now the month comes round again! Cool interchange of genial hours, Soft gleams of sunlight, streams of rain, Have starred the meadow-lands with flowers, And in the orchards on the hills The grass is gold with daffodils, And we have wander’d, hand in hand, Where sea below and sky above Seem narrowing to a strip of land The pathway that we love!

Our path looks out on the wide sea, And knows not of the land; we sit For hours in silent reverie, To watch the sea, and pulse with it; Its deep monotonous refrain Brings melancholy, almost pain: We scarcely wish to speak or move, But just to feel each other there, And sense of presence is like love, And silence more than prayer.

Sharp round the steep hill’s utmost line It winds, and, just below, the grass Sinks with tumultuous incline To where the rock-pools shine like glass; The tufts of thrift can drink their fill Of sea-wind on this rugged hill, And all the herbage, toss’d and blown, Is stain’d with salt and crush’d with wind, Save where behind some boulder-stone A harbour flowers may find.

The bright sea sparkles, sunbeam-kiss’d, And o’er its face such breezes float As lightly turn to amethyst The pearl-grey of a ring-dove’s throat; Thus stirr’d and ruffled, shines anew The radiant plain of changing hue, So gentle, that the eye divines No reason why the foam should fall So loudly, in such serried lines, Against the dark rock-wall.

The wind is low now; even here, Where all the breezes congregate, The softest warbler need not fear To linger with its downy mate; And here where you have long’d to be So many weeks and months with me, Sit silently, or softly speak Or sing some air of pensive mood, Not loud enough to mar or break This delicate solitude.

Are we not happy? Sun-lit air, Soft colour, floods of dewy light, A flowery perfume everywhere Pour out their wealth for our delight; Through dreary hours of snow and sleet The hope of these wing’d winter’s feet; We have them now! The very breath Of Nature seems an altar-fire That wakes the bright world’s heart from death To satiate our desire!

Sing to me, therefore, sing or speak! Wake my dull heart to happiness; Perchance my pulses are too weak To stir with all this sweet excess! Perhaps the sudden spring has come Too soon, and found my spirit dumb! Howe’er it be, my heart is cold, No echo stirs within my brain, To me, too suddenly grown old, This beauty speaks in vain!

Why are you silent? Lo! to-day It is not as it once hath been; I cannot sit the old sweet way, Absorbed, contented, and serene; I cannot feel my heart rejoice, I crave the comfort of your voice! Speak, speak! remind me of the past! Let my spent embers at your fire Revive and kindle, till at last Delight surpass desire!

Yea! are you silent, only press My hand, and turn your face away; You wince, too, from the fierce caress That April flings on us to-day? O human heart, too weak to bear The whole fulfilment of a prayer! This sudden summer strikes us dumb; The wild hope, realized, but scares! The substances of dreams become A burden unawares.

How can we sit here and not thrill With but the pleasure of past time? This footpath winding round the hill Should stir us like remember’d rhyme Nay! for the dull and sluggish brain Is spurred to action all in vain, And when the spirit cannot rise Through natural feeling into light, No perfumed air, no splendid skies, Can lend it wings for flight.

Come, then, and leave the sovereign sea To sparkle in the laughing air; Another day its face will be No less refulgent, no less fair, And we by custom be made strong To bear what we desired so long; To-day the slackening nerves demand A milder light, a sadder air, Some corner of forgotten land, Still winter-like and bare.

Come! leave our pathway for to-day, And turning inland, seek the woods, Where last year’s sombre leaves decay In brown sonorous solitudes; The murmurous voice of those dark trees Will teach us more than sun or seas, And in that twilight we may find Some golden flower of strange perfume, A blossom hidden from the wind, A flame within the tomb.