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78
THE CLIFF.
‘Worlds not realised.’
Fair is the sea at fullest tide,
And beautiful the mountain side;
But outward happiness to me
Is best assur'd, when I can see
The light upon the sea-bird's wing
From banks where heath and harebells spring;
And turn from blowing flowers to hail
The glory on the flitting sail.
And beautiful the mountain side;
But outward happiness to me
Is best assur'd, when I can see
The light upon the sea-bird's wing
From banks where heath and harebells spring;
And turn from blowing flowers to hail
The glory on the flitting sail.
This happy autumn-tide to me
Such mingled joy of earth and sea
Was richly given; for I found
A slope of heaving, grassy ground,
As rich in bloom as inland dell,
Though at its feet the surges fell,
And temper'd with the rising tide
The stillness of the mountain side.
A cliff rough-shod with tangled weed,
Whose top was strewn with clover seed,
From whose high, sea-encircled brink
No meadow-nurtured flower would shrink;
But where all creatures inland-born
Were ocean-cherished—Yellow Corn,
The lidless ox-eye, and the small
Close mountain flowers that sweeten all
The turfy coverts 'twixt the brake,
With those dim earthy scents that make
More glorious the treasure-tide
From belts of purpling heather wide,
And lightly balm the wind that stirs
The heavy fragrance of the furze.
Such mingled joy of earth and sea
Was richly given; for I found
A slope of heaving, grassy ground,
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Though at its feet the surges fell,
And temper'd with the rising tide
The stillness of the mountain side.
A cliff rough-shod with tangled weed,
Whose top was strewn with clover seed,
From whose high, sea-encircled brink
No meadow-nurtured flower would shrink;
But where all creatures inland-born
Were ocean-cherished—Yellow Corn,
The lidless ox-eye, and the small
Close mountain flowers that sweeten all
The turfy coverts 'twixt the brake,
With those dim earthy scents that make
More glorious the treasure-tide
From belts of purpling heather wide,
And lightly balm the wind that stirs
The heavy fragrance of the furze.
'Mid such sweet pasture 'twas not strange
The culling butterfly should range;
Brown, mottled moths were there, that bore
Deep mysteries of fairy-lore
On their strange-pictur'd wings, that none
Howe'er keen-eyed could muse upon,
So swift the runic page was turn'd,
As some fresh beauty was discern'd
'Mong beckoning blossom-crowds, that prest
With treasure their bewilder'd guest.
With idle sport, in idlest mood,
The boldest traveller I pursued,
Beyond the neighbouring vetch's rim
Across the crowding flower-tops dim,
Past the thick fern, to where upon
The mountain's utmost verge there shone
A great moon-daisy, on whose wide
White leaves it rested satisfied
An instant, then as eager fled
To the vast ocean's foaming bed.
The culling butterfly should range;
Brown, mottled moths were there, that bore
Deep mysteries of fairy-lore
80
Howe'er keen-eyed could muse upon,
So swift the runic page was turn'd,
As some fresh beauty was discern'd
'Mong beckoning blossom-crowds, that prest
With treasure their bewilder'd guest.
With idle sport, in idlest mood,
The boldest traveller I pursued,
Beyond the neighbouring vetch's rim
Across the crowding flower-tops dim,
Past the thick fern, to where upon
The mountain's utmost verge there shone
A great moon-daisy, on whose wide
White leaves it rested satisfied
An instant, then as eager fled
To the vast ocean's foaming bed.
I watch'd the blossom-busied thing
To that dim wilderness take wing,
Each changeful solace left behind,
The restful leaves, the flowery wind;
And on, around it and before,
A boundless life, to which it bore
No sweet affiance such as lies
'Twixt springing lark and summer skies;
But where each influence seem'd to press
On the slight creature's nothingness:
And watching, following so, a shade
Fell o'er my spirit, half-afraid,
Half-questioning, if she were not
As ignorantly bound; her lot
As perilous; and must she break
From life's bright mountain side to take
Her way into a world to be
As desolate as that lone sea?
To that dim wilderness take wing,
Each changeful solace left behind,
The restful leaves, the flowery wind;
And on, around it and before,
A boundless life, to which it bore
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'Twixt springing lark and summer skies;
But where each influence seem'd to press
On the slight creature's nothingness:
And watching, following so, a shade
Fell o'er my spirit, half-afraid,
Half-questioning, if she were not
As ignorantly bound; her lot
As perilous; and must she break
From life's bright mountain side to take
Her way into a world to be
As desolate as that lone sea?
Fair are the waves at fullest tide,
And beautiful the mountain-side,
But dear the ocean cliff, for there
We touch the flowers, yet feel an air
That nurtures other life, and know
That a great world doth overblow
Our soft land-breezes; and if some
Sad musings to our pleasure come,
We cannot neighbour the unknown,
Or let our thoughts stray from their own
Self-chosen boundaries, without
A sense of homelessness, of doubt,—
A sense swift-master'd by the strange
Unconquerable need of range
That gives us pilot thoughts, and wise
Far reaching hope to colonise
New spirit realms; oh, but for these,
What joy were on the widening seas?
For even in outward forms to see
Athwart the solemn mystery
Of those twin-breathing lives—the Here,
And the Here-hidden, bringeth cheer
To the close-housèd soul, that tho'
Home-keeping in her use, must grow
To God's own issues, and is yet
On myriad-worlded travel set.
And beautiful the mountain-side,
But dear the ocean cliff, for there
We touch the flowers, yet feel an air
That nurtures other life, and know
That a great world doth overblow
Our soft land-breezes; and if some
Sad musings to our pleasure come,
We cannot neighbour the unknown,
Or let our thoughts stray from their own
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A sense of homelessness, of doubt,—
A sense swift-master'd by the strange
Unconquerable need of range
That gives us pilot thoughts, and wise
Far reaching hope to colonise
New spirit realms; oh, but for these,
What joy were on the widening seas?
For even in outward forms to see
Athwart the solemn mystery
Of those twin-breathing lives—the Here,
And the Here-hidden, bringeth cheer
To the close-housèd soul, that tho'
Home-keeping in her use, must grow
To God's own issues, and is yet
On myriad-worlded travel set.
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