What shall we do with our day? you ask—
“ June day fair to the heart’s desire—
Lie in the meadow, and lounge and bask
Over books and tobacco? Or do you aspire
To conquer the summit that yesterday
We marked for our own ere your visit end?
Or shall we go riding, or fishing? Nay,
For the scent of the sea’s on the air, my friend.
We shall go to the head of the reedy lake,
And there, in a brake by a fir-grove, find
Two long canoes with arching deck,
Sea-riders, strong for a day of wind;
And oh, what a song shall the bright wind sing us
When clear of the shallows and clear of the sedge,
While the narrowing stream and the ebb-tide swing us
’Twixt sea and mountain to Wicklow Bridge!
But here beware! for the ebb goes roaring
Through half the arches, and half are dry,
And stakes and stones are ready for goring
Your Rob-Roy’s timbers as down you fly.
And beyond the Bridge, in the deep sea-current,
Where the rope-maze crosses from quay to quay,
You’ll need your head and your arm I warrant,
To fight the eddies and find your way.
There lifts your prow with the long pulsation
That tells how near us the glad seas are!
There lifts the heart with the old elation,
To meet the surf at the harbour-bar!
The North wind marshals the ranks of ocean,
And on they sweep with a strength serene,
Till the tide-race ruffles the mighty motion
And curls the crests of the rollers green.
The breakers flash on the sand-bank yonder,
And the cavern’d curve of the rock-walled bay
Is loud with clamour of hoarse sea-thunder
As the wave recoils in a blast of spray.
And I know a cleft among grim rock-masses,
Where if wind blow strong and the light come fair,
When the sea-cave roars and the spray-jet flashes,
“ rainbow floats in the sunny air.
At the Head’s wild verge, where the tideways quicken,
And eddies hollow the smooth sea-caves,
Our Rob-Roys plunge as the breakers thicken,
And bury their decks in the rearing waves.
We round the Point in the surge and welter
Of clashing billows and blinding foam—
Then mile on mile, in the cliff-wall’s shelter,
In calm new seas to the South we roam.
O bays of Wicklow, and gorse-crown’d headlands
Whose scent blows far on the seaward breeze,
How oft have I yearned in the tranquil midlands
For one brave shock of your lifting seas!
How oft it may be in days hereafter
Shall rise the thought of you, phantom-fair,
Shall steal the sound of the sea-waves’ laughter
On ears grown dull with time and care!
Waves, wash my spirit, and lonely places,
If well I loved you, and aught you knew,
Mark deep my heart with immortal traces
Of shining days when I dwelt with you!