 | The poetical works of Henry Alford |  |
199
LXXXV. ON MY STONE INKSTAND.
Loud raged the tumult: Ocean far and nearSeethed with wild anger, up the sloping sand
Driving the shreds of foam; while, half in fear,
We battled with the tempest, on the strand
Scarcely upheld; or, clinging arm to arm,
In wedge compact:—now would we venture brave
Into the trench of the retreating wave;
Now shoreward flee, with not all-feigned alarm.
A challenge did my gentle sister speak:
“Yon pebble fetch, 'mongst those that furthest roll,
Pierced on one face with an unsightly hole!”
Beneath a crested wave, that curled to break,
I grasped the prize, not scathless; and since then
That stone hath held the stuff that feeds my truant pen.
| The poetical works of Henry Alford | |