AYLWIN With Two Appendices, One Containing a Note on the Character of D'arcy; the Other a Key to the Story, Reprinted from _Notes and Queries_ by THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON Author of 'The Coming of Love: Rhona Boswell's Story,' etc. etc. TO C. J. R. IN REMEMBRANCE OF SUNNY DAYS AND STARLIT NIGHTS WHEN WE RAMBLED TOGETHER ON CRUMBLING CLIFFS THAT ARE NOW AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA THIS EDITION OF A STORY WHICH HAS BEEN A LINK BETWEEN US IS INSCRIBED CAUGHT IN THE EBBING TIDE A REMINISCENCE OF RAXTOX CLIFFS 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,[Footnote] 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. [Footnote: A famous swimming dog.] THE VISION _With Barton 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 Shakespeare'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 yon 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? 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?