Classic Poem

How fine the out-look on a summer's day,
From open window near thy shores, Penzance!
Or seated on thy well-kept promenade,
The eyes set free from page of old romance,
To gaze far out upon the sea and sky.
Now, turn delighted to yon noble Mount—
Home of St. Aubyn, crowned with costly pile—
To which tradition, with its gilded pen,
Gives angel visit, hence St. Michael named:
More veritable fact and glorious still,
Trod by Victoria, our gracious Queen.
Nor wearied yet, trace out those farther shores,
Where hides Porthleven, 'neath the bluff headland,
Its busy trade, its ships and pleasant walks;
And onward still, nigh lost in purple haze,
See the tall cliffs of far-famed Lizard rise!
These on the left: to right, with less expanse,
The verdurous slopes of Paul and Mousehole stretch,
With Newlyn nestled in the seaward curve;
Homes of the fishermen, whose gallant craft
Dot the blue waters of the tranquil bay.
These are thy glories, Town and Bay and Mount—
Sketched with but hasty and deficient hand—
That bring the tourist to thy pleasant homes,
To fish, to bathe, to roam along thy coasts:
These breathe new life into the jaded mind,
And charm the feverish into rest and peace.