Theodore Watts-Dunton: Poet, Novelist, Critic. Douglas James

      The mightiest Titan’s stroke could not withstand

      An ebbing tide like this. These swirls denote

      How wind and tide conspire. I can but float

      To the open sea and strike no more for land.

      Farewell, brown cliffs, farewell, beloved sand

      Her feet have pressed – farewell, dear little boat

      Where Gelert, 9 calmly sitting on my coat,

      Unconscious of my peril, gazes bland!

      All dangers grip me save the deadliest, fear:

      Yet these air-pictures of the past that glide —

      These death-mirages o’er the heaving tide —

      Showing two lovers in an alcove clear,

      Will break my heart. I see them and I hear

      As there they sit at morning, side by side.

      With Raxton elms behind – in front the sea,

         Sitting in rosy light in that alcove,

         They hear the first lark rise o’er Raxton Grove;

      ‘What should I do with fame, dear heart?’ says he.

      ‘You talk of fame, poetic fame, to me

         Whose crown is not of laurel but of love—

         To me who would not give this little glove

      On this dear hand for Shakspeare’s dower in fee.

      While, rising red and kindling every billow,

         The sun’s shield shines ’neath many a golden spear,

      To lean with you against this leafy pillow,

         To murmur words of love in this loved ear—

      To feel you bending like a bending willow,

         This is to be a poet—this, my dear!’

      O God, to die and leave her – die and leave

      The heaven so lately won! – And then, to know

      What misery will be hers – what lonely woe! —

      To see the bright eyes weep, to see her grieve

      Will make me a coward as I sink, and cleave

      To life though Destiny has bid me go.

      How shall I bear the pictures that will glow

      Above the glowing billows as they heave?

      One picture fades, and now above the spray

      Another shines: ah, do I know the bowers

      Where that sweet woman stands – the woodland flowers,

      In that bright wreath of grass and new-mown hay —

      That birthday wreath I wove when earthly hours

      Wore angel-wings, – till portents brought dismay?

      Proud of her wreath as laureate of his laurel,

         She smiles on him—on him, the prouder giver,

         As there they stand beside the sunlit river

      Where petals flush with rose the grass and sorrel:

      The chirping reed-birds, in their play or quarrel,

         Make musical the stream where lilies quiver—

         Ah! suddenly he feels her slim waist shiver:

      She speaks: her lips grow grey—her lips of coral!

      ‘From out my wreath two heart-shaped seeds are swaying,

         The seeds of which that gypsy girl has spoken—

         ’Tis fairy grass, alas! the lover’s token.’

      She lifts her fingers to her forehead, saying,

         ‘Touch the twin hearts.’  Says he, ‘’Tis idle playing’:

         He touches them; they fall—fall bruised and broken.

      Shall I turn coward here who sailed with Death

      Through many a tempest on mine own North Sea,

      And quail like him of old who bowed the knee —

      Faithless – to billows of Genesereth?

      Did I turn coward when my very breath

      Froze on my lips that Alpine night when he

      Stood glimmering there, the Skeleton, with me,

      While avalanches rolled from peaks beneath?

      Each billow bears me nearer to the verge

      Of realms where she is not – where love must wait. —

      If Gelert, there, could hear, no need to urge

      That friend, so faithful, true, affectionate,

      To come and help me, or to share my fate.

      Ah! surely I see him springing through the surge.

      Oh, Gelert, strong of wind and strong of paw

      Here gazing like your namesake, ‘Snowdon’s Hound,’

      When great Llewelyn’s child could not be found,

      And all the warriors stood in speechless awe —

      Mute as your namesake when his master saw

      The cradle tossed – the rushes red around —

      With never a word, but only a whimpering sound

      To tell what meant the blood on lip and jaw.

      In such a strait, to aid this gaze so fond,

      Should I, brave friend, have needed other speech

      Than this dear whimper? Is there not a bond

      Stronger than words that binds us each to each? —

      But Death has caught us both. ’Tis far beyond

      The strength of man or dog to win the beach.

      Through tangle-weed – through coils of slippery kelp

      Decking your shaggy forehead, those brave eyes

      Shine true – shine deep of love’s divine surmise

      As hers who gave you – then a Titan whelp!

      I think you know my danger and would help!

      See how I point to yonder smack that lies

      At anchor – Go! His countenance replies.

      Hope’s music rings in Gelert’s eager yelp!

      Now, life and love and death swim out with him!

      If