Only a turn of the tide! Is it always so when our dreams come true? Is the present so grey, and the future so blue? Is the rainbow we chased nought but drizzling mist? And the hope we hugged to our hearts and kiss’d, Delusion, and nought beside? I had liked him truly for years, I know he is greater and nobler than I, With a larger brain and a clearer eye; That my life is of small account, if it give Him comfort; but shall I, so long as I live, Feel these half-unreasoning fears? Ah me! one turn of the tide! This morning I was a careless child, So gay, so petted, so thoughtless and wild; I’m content with my fate, but one more year Of freedom would have been very dear. Was it I, or the wind that sigh’d? I thought so—here comes the rain, The mist grows dense, and the clouds gather fast, And the tide has covered the sands at last; I must hasten, and think of regrets no more, But—could all things be as they were before, I would not promise again. THE TURN OF THE TIDE. FAR up the shingle crept the cruel wave, With seeming coy reluctance to his feet, Which—faint with toiling in the noonday heat— He let his foe with flattering murmur lave, Nor sought to flee the cool and pleasant grave Its soft arms laid about him, nor to cheat The patient billow of its victim meet, For he had lost all power himself to save. When, while he waited, thinking death was slow, Eyesight and hearing dim with tired despair, The whisper of the sea grew faint and low, And, waked by stirring of the evening air, He rose, and saw the waves in sunset glow, Gleaming far off in beauty new and rare. THE TURN OF THE TIDE. I. THE harbour lights are dim with smoke Which hangs about the under sky, And wraps the simple fisher-folk In lurid mist as they go by. Along the shore the wind blows free, Keen twilight kisses the wan sea Far out; steer thither, watch with me The tender stars come out on high. II. The sky is deepening overhead: The sail flaps loose: the wind has died: The water laps the boat like lead: Faint ripples plash against the side, And shimmer with unearthly light, The harbour lamps are out of sight; We drift into a starless night Together on the ebbing tide. III. How still—how strange—the tide is slack, We eddy round—we drift no more. What swell is this which sweeps us back To where the gathering breakers roar? About the pale unlighted land? Can any tell if we shall stand Safe in the morning hand in hand Upon the steep and rock-bound shore? COMPROMISE. “COME, promise, dear,” I whispered low, “That you will take my name.” I never said I’d give it, but They swore ’twas all the same.