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With one more gaze, Old Cliff, at thee;
Thou hoary warrior by the Sea !
I, too, will seek my Home, and rest, -
As wearied birds, their sheltered nest,
Comfort there to find, and Charity.

The Cliff here referred to is that at the east end of Oddicombe Beach, Babbacombe, where I have often spent many a happy hour, buth as a boy and as a man.


Hail, beautiful Herald of Spring!

Telling that Winter is gone;
With joy I behold thee again,

And list to the charm of thy song.

When Youth with curls entwined my face,

And beam'd from either eye,
With boyish glee I lov'd to trace

Thy wand'rings through the Sky.

Now flitting like a silver flash,

With breast of white display'd ;
Anon, a quick, a sudden dash,

A darker hue betray'd.

Now lost to view in mazy dance,

Afar from human sight;
Then swift returning, as a glance

Shot from the realms of light.

While thus about in airy ring

Ye frolic all day long
Upon your swift, untiring wing,

And warble forth your song.

While ye each other quickly chase

Through ambient fields of air ; What bird can beat thee in that race,

Or with thee e'en compare ?

Then skimming o'er the meadows green,

All deck'd in Summer's pride, With suit of gold and silver sheen,

Meet for the river's bride.

Or else beneath the ivied bridge,

Where broken waters play,
All through the arches, and the ridge,

In gleams of silver spray.

There thou the Fisher dost beguile,

As o'er the River's brink
He sees thee brightly skim awhile,

Where cattle love to drink.

Or glancing with a sportive wheel

Athwart the water's breast,
Thy dusky pinions noiseless steal

Thee onward to thy quest

Of merry insect tribes, who sing

In murmurs all day long,
Till suddenly thy flashing wing

Betokens their last song.

Then, too, the Schoolboy wond'ringly

Regards thy mud-built nest Of curious, cunning masonry

Hang 'neath the eaves at rest.

Thus Youth and Age are pleas'd with thee,

Bird of the wand'ring wing, That comes to us so reg'larly

Each fresh returning Spring.


The Golden Bar by Menavarre

Is clad in robes of silvery white Of foaming waves, that wildly rage

Through darkness of the night.

The Golden Bar by Menavarre

Is wrapt in clouds of snowy spray; As billows hoarse roll on their course

Throughout the stormy day.

The Golden Bar by Menavarre

Shouts with a thousand lions' roar; When lightnings flash and thunders crash

And storm-waves dash upon the shore.

The Golden Bar by Menavarre

Reposes, calm, serene, and free; When the little boat doth quietly float

On the breast of the sleeping Sea.

The Golden Bar bears


spar Of ships long lost in Neptune's swell, Whilst screaming loud the seagulls crowd

To feast on the tinted barnacle.

The Golden Bar betokens war ;

When line on line the waves decline, All tinged with red, to their Ocean bed

Like leaves in Autumn time.

The Golden Bar reflects the Star

When the Moon smiles on the deep; And tranquilly the sounding Sea

Is rocked by gentle winds to sleep.

The Golden Bar is heard afar

When due Northwards blows the wind ;
And billows rude, a multitude,

Their favourite playground find.

O, Golden Bar ! thy waters are

A type of Death's great Mystery ;
For past their roar the Golden Shore

Lies ever calm and peacefully.

The original is a range of submerged rocks near the huge giant rock called Menavarre, to the north of the Island of Tresco, Scilly Isles, Cornwall. Here, during calm weather, the Fisher's boat may frequently be seen, for the place has many advantages preferred by pollack and other fish. In rough, stormy weather, however, the scene is completely changed ; then, the stanchest Ship that ever sailed the Seas, or braved Old Ocean's gales, would, if caught upon the Bar, be but the plaything of the giant billows which roll onward in stately grandeur, line on line, towards it, and then with tremendous roar, heard for miles around, tumble over, and break into a leaping, tossing, seething, chaotic mass of white boiling waters. This may truly be considered one of the Sights of Scilly, and one that those who have seen it will always remember.


ONE Eve beside the Village Brook I stood

With face towards the West,
Whilst lovely hues of sunset fell

Athwart its peaceful breast.

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