THE WOOD
But two miles more, and then
we rest!
Well, there is still an
hour of day,
And long the brightness
of the West
Will light us on our devious
way;
Sit then, awhile, here in
this wood--
So total is the solitude,
We safely may delay.
These massive roots afford
a seat,
Which seems for weary travellers
made.
There rest. The air is soft
and sweet
In this sequestered forest
glade,
And there are scents of
flowers around,
The evening dew draws from
the ground;
How soothingly they spread!
Yes; I was tired, but not
at heart;
No--that beats full of sweet
content,
For now I have my natural
part
Of action with adventure
blent;
Cast forth on the wide world
with thee,
And all my once waste energy
To weighty purpose bent.
Yet--sayst thou, spies around
us roam,
Our aims are termed conspiracy?
Haply, no more our English
home
An anchorage for us may
be?
That there is risk our mutual
blood
May redden in some lonely
wood
The knife of treachery?
Sayst thou, that where we
lodge each night,
In each lone farm, or lonelier
hall
Of Norman Peer--ere morning
light
Suspicion must as duly fall,
As day returns--such vigilance
Presides and watches over
France,
Such rigour governs all?
I fear not, William; dost
thou fear?
So that the knife does not
divide,
It may be ever hovering
near:
I could not tremble at thy
side,
And strenuous love--like
mine for thee--
Is buckler strong 'gainst
treachery,
And turns its stab aside.
I am resolved that thou shalt
learn
To trust my strength as
I trust thine;
I am resolved our souls
shall burn
With equal, steady, mingling
shine;
Part of the field is conquered
now,
Our lives in the same channel
flow,
Along the self-same line;
And while no groaning storm
is heard,
Thou seem'st content it
should be so,
But soon as comes a warning
word
Of danger--straight thine
anxious brow
Bends over me a mournful
shade,
As doubting if my powers
are made
To ford the floods of woe.
Know, then it is my spirit
swells,
And drinks, with eager joy,
the air
Of freedom--where at last
it dwells,
Chartered, a common task
to share
With thee, and then it stirs
alert,
And pants to learn what
menaced hurt
Demands for thee its care.
Remember, I have crossed
the deep,
And stood with thee on deck,
to gaze
On waves that rose in threatening
heap,
While stagnant lay a heavy
haze,
Dimly confusing sea with
sky,
And baffling, even, the
pilot's eye,
Intent to thread the maze--
Of rocks, on Bretagne's dangerous
coast,
And find a way to steer
our band
To the one point obscure,
which lost,
Flung us, as victims, on
the strand;--
All, elsewhere, gleamed
the Gallic sword,
And not a wherry could be
moored
Along the guarded land.
I feared not then--I fear
not now;
The interest of each stirring
scene
Wakes a new sense, a welcome
glow,
In every nerve and bounding
vein ;
Alike on turbid Channel
sea,
Or in still wood of Normandy,
I feel as born again.
The rain descended that wild
morn
When, anchoring in the cove
at last,
Our band, all weary and
forlorn
Ashore, like wave-worn sailors,
cast--
Sought for a sheltering
roof in vain,
And scarce could scanty
food obtain
To break their morning fast.
Thou didst thy crust with
me divide,
Thou didst thy cloak around
me fold;
And, sitting silent by thy
side,
I ate the bread in peace
untold:
Given kindly from thy hand,
'twas sweet
As costly fare or princely
treat
On royal plate of gold.
Sharp blew the sleet upon
my face,
And, rising wild, the gusty
wind
Drove on those thundering
waves apace,
Our crew so late had left
behind;
But, spite of frozen shower
and storm,
So close to thee, my heart
beat warm,
And tranquil slept my mind.
So now--nor foot-sore nor
opprest
With walking all this August
day,
I taste a heaven in this
brief rest,
This gipsy-halt beside the
way.
England's wild flowers are
fair to view,
Like balm is England's summer
dew
Like gold her sunset ray.
But the white violets, growing
here,
Are sweeter than I yet have
seen,
And ne'er did dew so pure
and clear
Distil on forest mosses
green,
As now, called forth by
summer heat,
Perfumes our cool and fresh
retreat--
These fragrant limes between.
That sunset! Look beneath
the boughs,
Over the copse--beyond the
hills;
How soft, yet deep and warm
it glows,
And heaven with rich suffusion
fills;
With hues where still the
opal's tint,
Its gleam of prisoned fire
is blent,
Where flame through azure
thrills!
Depart we now--for fast will
fade
That solemn splendour of
decline,
And deep must be the after-shade
As stars alone to-night
will shine;
No moon is destined--pale--to
gaze
On such a day's vast Phoenix
blaze,
A day in fires decayed!
There--hand-in-hand we tread
again
The mazes of this varying
wood,
And soon, amid a cultured
plain,
Girt in with fertile solitude,
We shall our resting-place
descry,
Marked by one roof-tree,
towering high
Above a farmstead rude.
Refreshed, erelong, with
rustic fare,
We'll seek a couch of dreamless
ease;
Courage will guard thy heart
from fear,
And Love give mine divinest
peace:
To-morrow brings more dangerous
toil,
And through its conflict
and turmoil
We'll pass, as God shall
please.
[The preceding composition
refers, doubtless, to the scenes
acted in France during the
last year of the Consulate.] |