|
THE CORNISH CHOUGH.
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.
and
on....
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.
and on...
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.
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.
roger curnow |
|
