Up on the hills not a soul in view,
In a vale not many nor few;
Leaves, still leaves, and nothing new. 
  It’s oh for a second maiden, at least,
To bear the flagon, and taste it too,
    And flavour the feast. 300

Lagging he moved, and apt to swerve;
Lazy of limb, but quick of nerve. 
At length the water-bed took a curve,
  The deep river swept its bankside bare;
Waters streamed from the hill-reserve—­
    Waters here, waters there.

High above, and deep below,
Bursting, bubbling, swelling the flow,
Like hill torrents after the snow,—­
  Bubbling, gurgling, in whirling strife, 310
Swaying, sweeping, to and fro,—­
    He must swim for his life.

Which way?—­which way?—­his eyes grew dim
With the dizzying whirl—­which way to swim? 
The thunderous downshoot deafened him;
  Half he choked in the lashing spray: 
Life is sweet, and the grave is grim—­
    Which way?—­which way?

A flash of light, a shout from the strand: 
‘This way—­this way; here lies the land!’ 320
His phial clutched in one drowning hand;
  He catches—­misses—­catches a rope;
His feet slip on the slipping sand: 
    Is there life?—­is there hope?

Just saved, without pulse or breath,—­
Scarcely saved from the gulp of death;
Laid where a willow shadoweth—­
  Laid where a swelling turf is smooth. 
(O Bride! but the Bridegroom lingereth
    For all thy sweet youth.) 330

Kind hands do and undo,
Kind voices whisper and coo: 
’I will chafe his hands’—­’And I’—­’And you
  Raise his head, put his hair aside.’ 
(If many laugh, one well may rue: 
    Sleep on, thou Bride.)

So the Prince was tended with care: 
One wrung foul ooze from his clustered hair;
Two chafed his hands, and did not spare;
  But one held his drooping head breast-high, 340
Till his eyes oped, and at unaware
    They met eye to eye.

Oh, a moon face in a shadowy place,
And a light touch and a winsome grace,
And a thrilling tender voice that says: 
  ’Safe from waters that seek the sea—­
Cold waters by rugged ways—­
    Safe with me.’

While overhead bird whistles to bird,
And round about plays a gamesome herd:  350
’Safe with us’—­some take up the word—­
  ’Safe with us, dear lord and friend: 
All the sweeter if long deferred
    Is rest in the end.’

Had he stayed to weigh and to scan,
He had been more or less than a man: 
He did what a young man can,
  Spoke of toil and an arduous way—­
Toil to-morrow, while golden ran
    The sands of to-day. 360

Slip past, slip fast,
Uncounted hours from first to last,
Many hours till the last is past,
  Many hours dwindling to one—­
One hour whose die is cast,
    One last hour gone.