University of Virginia Library

BOOK II. SONNETS OF THE CORNISH COASTS.

I. DEEP-SEA CALM.

With what deep calm, and passionlessly great,
Thy central soul is stored, the Equinox
Roars, and the North Wind drives ashore his flocks,
Thou heedest not, thou dost not feel the weight
Of the Leviathan, the ships in state
Plough on, and hull with hull in battle shocks,
Unshaken thou; the trembling planet rocks,
Yet thy deep heart will scarcely palpitate.
Peace-girdle of the world, thy face is moved,
And now thy furrowed brow with fierce light gleams,
Now laughter ripples forth a thousand miles,
But still the calm of thine abysmal streams
Flows round the people of our fretful isles,
And Earth's inconstant fever is reproved.

II. CORNWALL.

World of the yellow gorse, and purple lea,
With fruitful ocean sounding in the caves,
Rich-veined of earth, whose ever-rolling waves
Of harvest ripen on from sea to sea;
Thy wells have power, there, saints have bent the knee,
Awe guards thy cromlechs, haunts thy moorland graves,
And at the crossway, with the sign that saves,
Hangs Balder-Christ upon his granite tree.
Still on thy greens the fairies dance their round,
The brownies haunt the hearth and clot the cream,
Tregeagle cries, the wish-hounds chase and chime;
Thy cairns with clash of phantom-arms resound,
And nights of vision melt to days of dream
Filled with romance of old Arthurian time.

III. FALMOUTH.

Harbour of ample bosom, open door
For friends and strangers storm-tost in the bay,
Peace has not yet come down on earth to stay,
And still 'neath hate's dark night the foe may pour
In thro' thy gates, his floating thunder roar
Scorn to Pendennis, to the town dismay;
Our happy England whole of heart to-day,
To-morrow may be England wounded sore.
Oh! for the heart of Raleigh, when, returned,
He felt our western air blow crisp and cool
From off the golden slopes of wheat that burned
Against his topmost yards in Smithwic Pool—
Oh! for his voice to put our pride to school,
And bid us guard the land for which he yearned!

IV. KYNANCE COVE.

We passed through primrose scent and orchis bloom,
And gained a moorland overblown and drear,
But still the lark made music at our ear,
And sunny furze forbade a moment's gloom;
Then heard we a rememberable boom,
And caught a glimpse of water, emerald clear,
And down the rough-hewn steps we went with cheer
To claim the fisher's ocean-breathèd room.
But the sea called us and we could not stay,
And forth we strolled in that new wonder-land
To where the old-world rocky lions lay,
Their wave-wet haunches glistening o'er the sand,
And all the cliffs about us seemed to say
We bade men sing, We schooled the painter's hand.

V. THE COTTAGE AT KYNANCE COVE.

I know a cottage by the Cornish sea
Deep in a cove, gold-blossomed to the cloud,
Its hearth with music of the wave is loud,
Its chamber jocund with the streamlet's glee.
About it cries the gull and hums the bee,
Above it sings the lark, around it crowd
All flowers that love the sun and are not proud,
And live their lives out innocent and free.
Steep to the threshold fall the cliff-hewn stairs,
But on the heights are left all human cares,
And only days of thoughtful happiness
Descend its seaboard solitude to bless,
While still bright leagues of azure and of foam
Restrain the feet and make the cottage Home.

VI. THE BLOW-HOLE, KYNANCE CAVES.

When still the rocks were young, ere thought was born,
The same old sea that from the sands is fled
Worked at these halls of marble green and red,
And still, laborious, toils both night and morn.
Here Syrian sailors, of their god forlorn,
Saw Derceto rise o'er her cavern bed,
Or Latin helmsmen knew the dolphin's head,
And heard in fancy Triton sound his horn.
But now St. Malo's bells above the moor
Swing, and within these hollow ocean caves
No human knee is ever bent in prayer,
Save when a mother finds her dead boy there,
And though the surge blows trumpets at the door
No sea-god speaks in thunder from the waves.

VII. THE GULL ROCK, KYNANCE COVE.

If all the seas that ever sucked the hue
From midmost heaven, about dark rocks were rolled,
If all the winds that ever gathered gold
From out sea-air, upon their foreheads blew,
If all the wings of ocean birds that flew,
Milk-white upon their ledges dropped to fold—
Then, Kynance, would thy wave-bound fortress hold
Blue-girt, gold-washed, wing-whitened, rise in view.
Dear to the sailor passing up the Sound,
Dear to the wanderers as they westward rove,
Landwednack's cape, Landwednack's double eye;
But, from Carthillian to St. Levan's bound,
No rocks so magical as those that lie
The tawny lion-guards of Kynance Cove.

VIII. ST. RUMON'S WELL, AT GRADE.

Hid in the ocean-girt Nemæan wood
Hermit he lived, and here St. Rumon died,
This crystal spring his simple want supplied,
Wild roots and berries were his slender food.
And yet he found the beast in solitude
Must needs be fought with; day by day he died,
And taught that though the saintliest souls were tried,
The cleansed in spirit might be pure of blood.
His bones lie far away, but here they bring
The May-tide child for healing, maidens here
Drop the cross straws to see if love is kind,
And here the mother praying, wild with fear,
Will ask the well what bodes the rising wind
To him she brought as babe to Rumon's spring.

IX. AT THE LIZARD.

Here first the south wind brings her gift of flowers,
Here last about the cliffs the swallows play,
Yet neither bird nor flower for long can stay
Forth driven by the inhospitable hours.
But Hope remains, and here she builds her towers,
More durable than granite, bearded grey,
Expectant of the bark that passed away
From dawn to noon, from noon till night-time lowers.
Her stout heart dies not with the dwindling sail,
She soonest sees the rising vessel come,
The storm winds burst, black skies and ocean meet,
Her voice of prayer is heard above the gale,
And, when the dead are laid about her feet,
She murmurs, “Lo the loved one steers for home.”

X. A MEMORY OF THE LIZARD.

Mine eyes are dim, and yet before mine eyes
Roll in dark purple seas that leap to green,
And rim the cliffs with music, cliffs that lean
And listen to the sea-birds' human cries;
Fantastic rocks with their chameleon dyes
Move almost into speech, and what they mean
The sunlight doth interpret; happy scene,
Remade with every headland's swift surprise.
There all the land is breathed about with flowers,
Thrift, orchis, primrose, and the starry squills;
And all the land is wreathed about with gold,
Gold gleams the down, and gleams the sea-mew's hold;
And at that sunny sight the spirit towers,
Weak knees are strengthened, and the faint heart wills.

XI. FAREWELL AT LIZARD POINT.

We say farewell, the half we never know
Of those who wave their hands, farewell! farewell!
And so we fade to distance—it is well—
If we knew all we leave we could not go.
How many a heart beneath the wings of snow,
In quest of other lands wherein to dwell,
Has passed this headland conscious of a spell,
Yet never sighed or felt the full tear flow!
These have not known how here the swallow first
Bears England summer on her glossy wings,
How first about this cape the cuckoo calls,
How here upon these southern-hearted walls
The earliest flowers to radiant glory burst,
And all day long of home the skylark sings.

XII. PIGEON HUGO

Sheer rocks of pitchy blackness to the skies,
With flower-full ledges, gold dust on the walls,
O'erhang a tide that when it flows or falls
Boils into rage of foam that never dies.
There sea-mews circle with distressful cries
And constant melancholy; depth appals
And height is hopeless; there the raven calls
Death, and there Death, the cormorant, replies.
Cavern of fury, you dissemble well;
Your walls of death and pain with flowers you dress,
With gloss of gold you half conceal your spite;
You are the very counterfeit of hell,
Your central depths dark misery, fathomless,
Your open mouth sweet kisses, dear delight.

XIII. MULLYON ISLAND (ENYS BRONNEN).

He is the perfect man who dares to be
Alone, yet not too separate from his kind;
Whose forehead meets undaunted every wind,
Whose heart is calm in storm or summer sea.
To him all helpless ones are fain to flee,
And, as they shelter 'neath his counsel, find
Consistent truth, and constancy as kind—
To come and go on all occasions free.
And thou of this man's nature hast a part,
Thou island home of succour by the shore,
The waves that strew Polurrian's beach with woe
Break round thee, but the wave-beat fishers know
Thou hast sweet shelter for the boats in store,—
Isle of the genial hand and generous heart.

XIV. FLORA DAY AT HELSTON (FURRY DAY), MAY 8.

Come, Marion, come, let Robin blow his horn,
For Flora holds high festival to-day,
The Nansloe woods are fragrant with the May,
And Helston Hill is green with springing corn.
Come, bring the orchis, break the milk-white thorn,
Dance in and out, and let who will say nay,
And he, who will not leave his work for play,
Shall feel Pengella's waterbrook of scorn.
This is the day our British fathers gave
To Flora's head their boasted victory's crown,
The day our great St. George had power to save,
When the fierce Dragon flamed above the town;
But on this day we do remember most
Spain's huge sea-dragon, slain upon the coast.

XV. MOUNT ST. MICHAEL, PENZANCE.

Mount of the crescent bay, and Cornish flood,
Green-based and grey with towers, about thy feet
The timid tides for awe will scarcely meet,
Since here th' Archangel Michael gleaming stood;
And at the sight eye-blind beneath his hood
The hermit shrank, Tregeagle left his seat,
And all the Fauns and Satyrs in retreat
Went screaming from the dark, mysterious wood.
The woods in Lyonnesse are overthrown,
Peace holds her pleasant castle on thy hill,
Below the beast makes havoc of the man;
Still England needs a Michael in her van
To slay the dragon, the archangel still,
High on his mount of battle must be shown.

XVI. SPRING DREAMS AMONGST THE CORNISH MINERS.

Land of the horns of plenty! though thy seas
No longer feel the strong Phœnician oar,
Nor Carthaginians push their boats ashore
To claim a sister Cassiterides;
Though those man-moles who marred thy pleasant leas
Cease, and the streams run purer than before;
Though less the hammers ring, the chimneys roar,
And the grim shales grow heathery by degrees;
Still when the beech in hollow woods is bold,
And April scatters violets thro' the land,
When once again the cuckoo's tale is told,
And primrose breath on every breeze is fanned,
Thy gay gorse vision haunts the mining band,
They dream wild dreams of Californian gold.

XVII. ST. MADRON'S WELL.

(ST. PATERNE, BP. OF AVRANCHES, 6th CENT.)

We vex the hills with quarries, and we fell
The woods, and as we toil are magnified,
And building say,—Our God shall here abide,
This is His house wherein He loves to dwell;—
But we forget that as we rear the shell
Souls are not reared: we shut the heaven outside;
Far better had we left the portals wide,
As old St. Paterne left them at his well.
Led by the wayside cross, from what far lands
To yonder spring for health the pilgrims went;
And goodly men and maidens plighted troth,—
Those drank the waters and these dipped their hands,
While birds and flowers, yea all things innocent,
Attested health, were sponsors for the oath.

XVIII. LANYON CROMLECH.

Before the ocean burst his tawny chain
And swept the woods of Lyonnesse, and broke
In on the altars and their groves of oak,
Here men were gathered from the moorland plain:
With groaning rollers and the lever's strain,
Princes and people stretched an equal yoke,
Then from the new-poised cromlech curled the smoke,
And the grey granite took a ruddy stain.
From Galva, holy Zennor, and the height
Of Carn-Brea, throng the worshippers no more,
With lamentation and the dead man's praise;
But the strong love that crowned this deed of might,
And the stern hope for heroes gone before,
Stand up rebukers of our faithless days.

XIX. THE MÊN-SCRYFA (THE WRITTEN STONE).

Brown Caer Galva takes the sun and hears
The wailing winds, the sorrow-laden deep,
That mourned with all the people for the sleep
Of Rialobran, a prince without his peers.
But yet he died as heroes die—the spears
Not ever backward, and the castle keep
Unstormed, the kine, the oxen, and the sheep
Safe for his father's milk-pail, knife, and shears.
How many a chief on Galva's rocky mound
Has looked on this lone pillar with a sigh,
And prayed his son might meet as brave a death;
And those three Saxon kings, that supped hard by,
Tossed horns to Rialobran and cursed the wound,
Yet could not drive dark sorrow from the heath.

XX. A LEGEND OF KING ARTHUR.

(AT SENNEN.)

Headland of battle, long as choughs shall fly—
The birds with beak and talon wet with blood,
As long as Genvor rears her raven brood
To croak against the Dane, the victory
Of those nine Cornish kings can never die;
No mill-wheel turns to-day with crimson flood
But all who round the Table-mân take food
Must pray that Arthur's time again were by.
For once Excalibur with gleaming brand
Flashed hope to friend, confusion to the foe,
But Athelstane on Bollait's fateful field
Stamped British hearts to dust that could not yield,
And Arthur now on wings of night must go,
A deathless chough about a conquered land.

XXI. AT THE LAND'S END.

Had I but been with that adventurous soul
Who by sore need, or love of wandering pressed,
Pushed flocks and children towards the glowing west,
And crossed the ocean river, but found no goal:
From Thames to where the Tamar's waters roll
Moved tent and gods, till, on this bastion crest,
He felt of all earth's mystery possessed,
And deemed of men and lands he knew the whole—
I too had marvelled: yet unto his ears
From forth the sunset vigorously out-thrown
Sounds of another world perchance were borne;
He heard within the waves the sighs and fears
Of human hearts as restless as his own,
And fain would follow further from the morn.

XXII. FOAM-FRINGE AT GURNARD'S HEAD.

Treryn, the castled, stands towards the tide,
Grey-lichened, gold-incrusted, green with moss,
And all day long, the waves about her toss
White arms of foam, as jealous of her pride,
But ever down the darkened ledges slide
The baffled waters. Though no more the cross
Shines o'er the flaming torch to save from loss,
Her mystic strength in storm has never died.
How like a soul that in the tides of sin
Beats back the waves of passion, and secure
Makes of those tides new power for innocence,
Does this victorious headland seem to win
From out the raging waves a silver fence,
Wreathed of white foam-bells, peaceable and pure.

XXIII. NEW QUAY.

As if by foes behind them hotly prest,
The pale battalions of the houses stand
Upon the utmost verge of the dark land,
And look for help to rise beyond the west,
Where the sun sinks blood-crimson; but the crest
Of wave on wave falls sullen on the strand,
Faints into foam that dies, and still no hand
Is near to give the routed army rest.
There as I gazed I heard between the foam
And those brown cavernous cliffs, that split the bay,
And swirl the rising waters either way,
That happiest sound of children, spade on spade,
Patting the mimic castles they had made,
And fear gave place to peace, and joy, and home.

XXIV. THE CAIRNS, TREVALGA HEAD.

The storm-winds break as whitely on Trevose,
And bruise Trevalga's cliff to lilac stain,
As when they bore thee from the battle plain
And laid thee on this headland, and there rose
Cries of a kingless people, and the woes
Of friends who felt all victory was vain,
If here above the melancholy main
Beneath his mound the victor must repose.
Yet what he did was very bravely done:
He slew the wolf, he tamed the long-horned ox,
Broke the wild tribes who warred upon his throne,
And saved his people and his people's flocks—
And so they set him with his axe of stone
Among the mews that wail about the rocks.

XXV. THE NUNNERY OF LANHERNE, MAWGAN.

I asked the sad-faced, necessary priest,
“How fare you, brother, in this solitude?”
“To be alone,” said he, “for souls is good,
And I, that am the least among the least,
Have round about me flower and bird and beast,
Bright presences that sociably intrude,
And fill in fellowship my loneliest mood,
With inarticulate joy that has not ceased.”
And as he spake, about his ears there fell
A shower of scented blossom, and the drone
Of bees and lapse of waters, clang of daws,
Mixed with the well-contented rooks' applause
Among their nests. Methought I, too, could dwell,
Lanherne, in thy sweet valley, and alone.

XXVI. A CORNISH SAINT, MAWGAN.

IN MEMORIAM MARY DAVY, OBIIT MAY 18, 1884.

Lord, how impartially Thou dost prepare
For this world's contradiction, holy lives:
Now noble dames, now humble peasant wives,
Are called to trim their lamps with earnest care,
And wait the Bridegroom. In her curious chair
Close prisoner, still this aged saint contrives
Largesse of love for all who come, and gives,
From parish pittance, more than life can spare.
Beneath the high starched cap her angel face
Is lined with sorrow that has made her wise,
Solemn she speaks, and yet she smiles with grace;
In her have met the two eternities:
A Love that would all human hearts embrace,
A Faith that fain would people Paradise.