University of Virginia Library

IV. Part iv. SONNETS OF THE YORKSHIRE COAST—SCARBOROUGH.

I. ROBIN HOOD'S TOWN.

My eyes were full of that cliff-huddled home,
With smoke, and sun, and shadow mistimpearled,
White as if some Atlantic billow curled
Had broke and clung, inhabitable foam.
There were the men who will no longer roam,
Tired of the sea, that wanders round the world,
Still cannot bid their sails be wholly furled,
And still must watch what vessels rise and come.
And as from shore I clomb the narrow street,
Thronged with its boats for safety thither brought,
By stairs perplexed and passages uneven,
But for the red red roofs of thy retreat,
Bold Robin Hood, I verily had thought
I gazed upon the sweetest scene in Devon.

II. TO ROBIN HOOD'S BAY.

We passed the pillars in the meadows reared
To Robin Hood and Archer Little John,
When, having dined off monkish venison,
They shewed the Abbot why their bolts were feared;
Then sudden to the sea the farm lands cleared
By Saxon hatchets sloped, the moor looked on,
As purple as the day the fight was won
And the black raven on the Peak appeared;
And down we dropped toward bold Robin's bay—
The reefs ran dark and fateful to the tide,
Roof clung to roof as if they feared a wrong;
None hunt wild Robin now, o'er England wide
His deeds are cancelled for their gifts to song—
And hide-and-seek the peeping houses play.

III. BAY TOWN.

In the curved bay, where resonantly flow
The north sea tides, and wondrous echo brings
The noise of ships that, borne on cloudy wings,
Pant round the headlands, red the roof-trees glow;
Homes of the fisher, built how sailors know,
With intricate care, and close up-shoulderings.
Men-martlets they, the sons of robber kings,
Norseman and Dane, and Robin of the bow.
So planned and fashioned on their bank of shale
Village and cliff are one, each open door
A tiny gate to undiscovered caves.
And when the sun has sunk behind the moor
The cottage eyes flash fire, and o'er the waves
House whispers house the smuggler's oft-told tale.

IV. SCARBOROUGH CASTLE.

Grim Scardeborga—so our sages spell
The name the Vikings gave thee—since the night
When fierce Hardrada from thy rocky height
Rained flaky fires that on the fish-huts fell,
And left them ashes, never has the smell
Of fire passed from thee! Fury of the fight,
Zeal for the king or for the people's right,
Have flamed up fresh in yonder citadel.
But they who see thy fortress-cavern gape
High in the wall where once the faggot blazed,
Where now the winds blow desolate and cold,
May know two fires—though here imprisoned both,
Burn free—one, Mercy, in pure woman-shape;
One, zeal for God, a weaver-prophet raised.

V. AT THE PARISH CHURCH, SCARBOROUGH.

The bells rang loud; below, the vessels lay
As if they listened to a preacher's tone,
Crying, “O, wandering souls, why have ye gone
Labouring in vain, and wherefore will ye stray?”
I looked, and into distance, lo, the bay
Gleamed like the sea that beats before the Throne,—
Glass mixed with fire; and bells, waves, boats, in one,
A thousand “Hallelujahs!” seemed to say.
I entered. In the church, the chanting choir
Did but prolong that vision of accord,
When all who wander, weary, tempest-tost,
Shall stand upon the sea of molten fire;
And, with the harps of God, a choral host
Shall sing the marvellous glory of the Lord.

VI. OLIVER'S MOUNT, SCARBOROUGH.

When from the mask of fashion and of show
I seek, green Weaponesse, thy solemn height,
Again I seem to see thy beacon light
Flash fire of help to friend, of hurt to foe.
Great Ida's fleet has neared the cliffs of snow;
From Inguar, lo! St. Hilda's monks in flight;
The rash Hardrada's keels are hove in sight;
And outlawed Robin scours the wood below.
Dreams are but dreams! Thy beacon flares no more;
No shepherd hither brings in haste his quern,
Or hurries with his frightened flocks and herds.
But we have need of beacon men'ries stern;
Foes watch along an ease-enfeebled shore,
And thy grave hill can speak Protector's words.

VII. THE WANDERER'S TOMB ON THE FILEY HEIGHTS.

His was no ordinary soul, the brave
Who, as he felt the thundering surge of death
Sound in his ears, could yet, with his last breath,
Columbus-like, still murmur of the wave,
And bid them lay him dead where he might have
View of the long well-watered bay beneath;
So with his dagger, horn, and Druid wreath,
His soul might unastonied leave the grave.
For he had wandered far, before he time
They chose for him the hollowed oaken tree,
Had warred with men, had battled much with wind;
But still he kept the temper of his prime,
And still the wild unconquerable sea
Hid leagues of wonder for his warrior mind.

VIII. THE DANE'S DYKE, FLAMBOROUGH HEAD.

I cannot climb this mighty rampire's breast
Without a thought of those fierce men of old,
Who steered adventurous galleys, and were bold
To scale the white cliff's yet unconquered breast,
Smote down the hind, the shepherd dispossessed,
And few, against a multitude untold,
Planned out what little kingdom they could hold,
And built their wall against the whole wide west.
First of our land's invaders—whether thirst
For wider acres or for wiser laws,
Or led by natural wish some way to win
Beyond the heaving grey that hedged them in—
Theirs was the glory of a desperate cause;
Others have followed after, these were first.

IX. FLAMBOROUGH.

Headland of flame, thy tower may flash by night,
But these far-gleaming promontories glow
Through mist or sunshine, citadels of snow;
Above the gloomy waters, dancing light
Plays in each shadowy hall and lucent bight,
And wondering tides clap hands of awe, and go
By milk-white monolith and portico,
With swift return, as if for sheer delight.
But he who wanders in thy hollow caves
Will hear a wailing murmur, see the stain
Like blood, in pool and on the pavement thrown;
As though for all the wash of cleansing waves
The signs of Ida's struggle must remain,
When on the heights he won Northumbria's crown.

X. SEA SYMPATHY.

Weighed down beneath the inevitable press
Of earthly calls, as frivolous as loud,
Hemmed in and vexed with the persistent crowd
Of things to do, that done are nothingness,
When lips that might have sung are musicless
For want of silent hearing, and the proud
Exacting hours move on behind a shroud
Of thought towards a tomb that none can bless;
Then let the singer seek a lonely shore—
There, like a man that dreams and walks in swound,
Wrapped all about with voices, lo, the din
That shuts the world without, shuts thought within,
And ocean, echoing to his heart's profound,
Shall stir his soul and melody restore.