|
THE CORNISH CHOUGH.
By John Harris.
WHERE
not a sound is heard
But the
white waves, O bird,
And slippery rocks fling back the vanquish'd sea,
Thou soarest
in thy pride,
Not heeding
storm or tide;
In Freedom's temple nothing is more free.
'T
is pleasant by this stone,
Sea-wash'd
and weed-o'ergrown,
With Solitude and Silence at my side,
To list the
solemn roar
Of ocean on
the shore,
And up the beetling cliff to see thee glide.
Though
harsh thy earnest cry.
On crag, or
shooting high
Above the tumult of this dusty sphere,
Thou tellest
of the steep
Where Peace
and Quiet sleep,
And noisy man but rarely visits here.
For
this I love thee, bird.
And feel my
pulses stirr'd
To see thee grandly on the high air ride,
Or float
along the land,
Or drop upon
the sand,
Or perch within the gully's frowning side.
Thou
bringest the sweet thought
Of some
straw-cover'd cot,
On the lone moor beside the bubbling well,
Where
cluster wife and child,
And bees hum
o'er the wild:
In this seclusion it were joy to dwell.
Will
such a quiet bower
Be ever more
my dower
In this rough region of perpetual strife?
I like a
bird from home
Forward and
backward roam;
But there is rest beneath the Tree of Life.
In
this dark world of din,
Of
selfishness and sin,
Help me, dear Saviour, on Thy love to rest;
That, having
cross'd life's sea,
My shatter'd
bark may be
Moor'd safely in the haven of the blest.
The
Muse at this sweet hour
Lies with me
to my bower
Among the heather of my native hill;
The rude
rock-hedges here
And mossy
turf, how dear!
What gushing song! how fresh the moors and still!
No
spot of earth like thee,
So full of
heaven to me,
O hill of rock, piled to the passing cloud!
Good spirits
in their flight
Upon thy
crags alight,
And leave a glory where they brightly bow'd.
I
well remember now,
In boy-days
on thy brow,
When first my lyre among thy larks I found,
Stealing
from mother's side
Out on the
common wide,
Strange Druid footfalls seem'd to echo round.
Dark
Cornish chough, for thee
My shred of
minstrelsy
I carol at this meditative hour,
Linking thee
with my reed,
Grey moor
and grassy mead,
Dear carn and cottage, heathy bank and bower.
0-0-0-0-0
|