Classic Poem

Rare Clovelly, Devon's gem,
From the silvery ocean-hem
Climbing up the narrow cleft,
Wooded slopes to right and left,
Why this sweet midsummer morn
Is thy gallant heart forlorn?
For beneath the arching vine
Where the cottage doorways line,
Brow to brow, thy stone-wrought stair,
Sobs of women weigh the air;
All dismayed the children stand,
Seeking each an elder hand;
And thy gossip, wondrous old,
Wont his daily state to hold
On the seaward-looking wall,
Where the warmest sunbeams fall,
Sinks his chin upon his staff,
Missing sailor yarn and chaff,
Neighbor news and quay report
Of his bronzed, blue-jacket court.
Sailing-day! The eager tide,
Mounting now the cliff's red side,
Redder for the dashing spray,
On its ebb will bear away
Lads beloved of all, for in
Proud Clovelly all are kin.
Bold the groom who leadeth home
Maiden bred beyond the combe;
Warmly must a stranger plead
Ere the cliff-born beauty heed;
And to-day, though few depart,
Many are the eyes a-smart
With unwonted tears that run
For a brother, nephew, son.
As, should hidden rock-point fret
Yonder tawny fishing-net,
All the fibres feel the strain,
Even thus the parting-pain
Every ingle's mirth must mar,
Woven so these heart-strings are.
Yet beware, O weeping eyes!
Still in grief let love be wise.
Still in grief let love recall
All is saved by yielding all.
While these youthful hearts are great,
Glad, heroic, passionate,
In the hour that bids them rise
To their manhood's destinies,
Ill it were of love to mar
With a cloud the guiding star.
Would Clovelly hold her own,
Be no bonds about them thrown;
Smile and blessing set them free
For the fair, enchanted sea;
Let them rove, as they are fain,
All the opalescent plain.
Through the lonely months and years
Will be time enough for tears.
Set them free. The ocean-spell
Sways its hour, but know ye well,
Many and many a whispering night
While the phosphorescent light
Twinkles in the creamy wake,
On the sailor's watch will break
Vision of a cliff-bound bay,
Where the pearl and beryl play
On the changeful waves. In trance
Shall he mark the merry dance
Of the tan-sailed fishing-fleet;
See the sheer and crannied street,
Musical with children's glee,
Bright with rose and fuchsia tree,
And above, the beach-grown heights
Where the cooing dove delights
O'er the heather and the gorse,—
Dreams that guide the good ship's course
Whither, by the singing main,
Love shall greet her own again.