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A Lyme Garland

Being verses, mainly written at Lyme Regis, or upon the scenery of the neighbourhood; By Francis Turner Palgrave
 
 

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5

THE DANISH BARROW

Lie still, old Dane, below thy heap!—
A sturdy-back and sturdy-limb,
Who'er he was, I warrant him
Upon whose mound the single sheep
Browses and tinkles in the sun,
Within the narrow vale alone.
Lie still, old Dane! this restful scene
Suits well thy centuries of sleep:
The soft brown roots above thee creep,
The lotus flaunts his ruddy sheen,
And,—vain memento of the spot,—
The turquoise-eyed forget-me-not.
Lie still!—thy mother-land herself
Would know thee not again: no more
The Raven from the northern shore
Hails the bold crew to push for pelf,
Through fire and blood and slaughter'd kings,
Neath the black terror of his wings.

6

And thou;—thy very name is lost!
The peasant only knows that here
Bold Alfred scoop'd thy flinty bier,
And pray'd a foeman's prayer, and tost
His auburn head, and said ‘One more
‘Of England's foes guards England's shore,’
And turn'd and pass'd to other feats,
And left thee in thine iron robe,
To circle with the circling globe,
While Time's corrosive dewdrop eats
The giant warrior to a crust
Of earth in earth, and rust in rust.
So lie; and let the children play
And sit like flowers upon thy grave,
And crown with flowers,—that hardly have
A briefer blooming-time than they:—
So soon all human things have rest,
Like thee, within the Mother's breast.
Lyme: 1873

7

IN SPRING

Sweet primrose time! when thou art here
I go by grassy ledges
Of long lane-side, and pasture-mead,
And moss-entangled hedges:
And all about her army gay
The primrose weather musters,
In single knots, and scatter'd files,
And constellated clusters.
And golden-headed children go
Among the golden blossoms,
And harvest a whole meadow's wealth,
Heap'd in their dainty bosoms.
Ah! play your play, sweet little ones,
While life is gladness only:
Nor ask an equal mirth from hearts
Which, e'en with you, are lonely.
God to his flowers his flowers gives,
Pure happiness uncloying:
Whilst they, whose primrose time is past,
Enjoy in your enjoying.
Lyme: 1874

8

NATURAE REPARATRICI

Gray cloud, gray veil 'twixt me and youth
And youth's unclouded weather,
Well may'st thou blot the golden days
And skies effaced for ever.
In vain the veil to silver melts,
And flakes of sun and shadow
Once more invite these alien steps
To chase them o'er the meadow.
Yet nature holds a gracious hand,
Her ancient way pursuing;
And spreads the charms we loved of old,
To aid the heart's renewing.
Here her long crests of fringed crag
Allure the sky-ward swallows;
Here still the dove's low love-note floats
Above her leafy hollows.
Here its calm strength her hillside rears
From heaving slopes of clover;
Here still the pewit pipes and flits
Within his furzy cover.
Here hums the wild-bee in the thyme,
Here glows the royal heather;
And youth comes back upon the breeze,
And youth's unclouded weather.
Lyme: 1871

9

THE SEA GODS:

A scene from Lyme in the last century.

A red fog hangs on the horns of the moon
In a heaven of breeze and rain;
And voices come from the silvery sea,
And they run the boat with a low hoarse glee
Through the foam-fringed skirt of the main.
Like drift she dances upon the wave
As aloft the brown sails glide;
And she knows her way o'er the silvery sea,
And knocks the foam from her bows with glee
And the wake spreads steady and wide.
They are but two against King and Laws;
But two that each other know:
They are but two on the silvery sea,
But they face their chance with a sinewy glee
As into the night they go.
On the cliff the station is white and high,
But sees not, snug and low
Where their mate lies dim on the silvery sea,
With a light just shown in a flash of glee
As they near the weather-bow.
With a hail and a laugh and a heave-yo-ho
They lower the kegs afloat:—

19

But they curse the moon on the silvery sea,
And his white crests hiss with an angry glee
Round the gunwale-laden boat.
Nereus and Triton are faded and gone,
Puff'd cheek, and gleaming limb:
But these are the sons of the silvery sea,
As salt and stalwart in lawless glee;
As bronzed, and matted, and grim.
They are but two against King and laws:
Hold on, my Tritons, awhile!
Two smugglers stout on a silvery sea;—
But they run her ashore with a swirl of glee,
And off to the cliffs they file.
Lyme: 1871