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70
Charles Kingsley.
1819–75.
(OFF BIDEFORD BAY.)
By wave-bruised Baggy Point, smooth Croyda's head,
We crossed the bay of Danish Hubba's woe;
High o'er the sea-grey beach of Westward Ho
The dunes on which thy sun its magic shed,
Gleamed doubly radiant; but our eyes were led
To that white beacon-tower the sailors know,
Star of the shoals where Taw and Torridge flow,
Friend for the lost, home-bringer from the dead.
We crossed the bay of Danish Hubba's woe;
High o'er the sea-grey beach of Westward Ho
The dunes on which thy sun its magic shed,
Gleamed doubly radiant; but our eyes were led
To that white beacon-tower the sailors know,
Star of the shoals where Taw and Torridge flow,
Friend for the lost, home-bringer from the dead.
For thou in perilous times of dark didst stand
A beacon true no wanderer could reprove,
Whether he tossed on doubt's unresting sea,
Or groped his way through reason's shifting sand,
And many a soul steered straight for home by thee,
Thou pure white tower of fire and faith and love.
A beacon true no wanderer could reprove,
Whether he tossed on doubt's unresting sea,
Or groped his way through reason's shifting sand,
And many a soul steered straight for home by thee,
Thou pure white tower of fire and faith and love.
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