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| WHISTLING strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear, | |
| The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor; | |
| It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace, | |
| It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the Race; | |
| The tide swings round in the Race, and they ’re plaining whisht and low, | 5 |
| And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray sea-lavenders grow; | |
| And the cotton grass sways to and fro; | |
| And the gore-sprent sundews thrive | |
| With oozy hands alive. | |
| Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear, | 10 |
| How they ’re crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor? | |
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| Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands, | |
| Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-hands | |
| Which hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wall | |
| Keep evil from its onward course, as the great tides rise and fall? | 15 |
| The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath | |
| Of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea rattles of Death; | |
| “I rise in the shallows,” ’a saith, | |
| “Where the mermaid’s kettle sings, | |
| And the black shag flaps his wings!” | 20 |
| Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear, | |
| When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough Pentruan of Porthmeor! | |
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| Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore, | |
| And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moor; | |
| And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane, | 25 |
| When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine; | |
| The fishers cast the seine, and ’t is “Heva!” in the town, | |
| And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down; | |
| And ye hoist the mainsail brown, | |
| As over the deep-sea roll | 30 |
| The lurker follows the shoal; | |
| To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear, | |
| When the halyards creak to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor! | |
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| And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear, | |
| The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor! | 35 |
| It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace,— | |
| It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race: | |
| —The tide swings round in the Race, and they ’re whistling whisht and low, | |
| And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged foxgloves blow; | |
| And the moor-grass sways to and fro; | 40 |
| Where the yellow moor-birds sigh, | |
| And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by. | |
| Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through the darkness wild and drear,— | |
| How they ’re calling, calling, calling, Pentruan of Porthmeor? | |
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