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| ’T IS eve! ’t is glimmering eve! how fair the scene, | |
| Touched by the soft hues of the dreamy west! | |
| Dim hills afar, and happy vales between, | |
| With the tall corn’s deep furrow calmly blest: | |
| Beneath, the sea! by Eve’s fond gale caressed, | 5 |
| Mid groves of living green that fringe its side; | |
| Dark sails that gleam on ocean’s heaving breast | |
| From the glad fisher-barks that homeward glide, | |
| To make Clovelly’s shores at pleasant evening-tide. | |
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| Hearken! the mingling sounds of earth and sea, | 10 |
| The pastoral music of the bleating flock, | |
| Blent with the sea-bird’s uncouth melody, | |
| The waves’ deep murmur to the unheeding rock; | |
| And ever and anon the impatient shock | |
| Of some strong billow on the sounding shore: | 15 |
| And hark! the rowers’ deep and well-known stroke, | |
| Glad hearts are there, and joyful hands once more | |
| Furrow the whitening wave with their returning oar. | |
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| But turn where Art with votive hand hath twined | |
| A living wreath for Nature’s grateful brow, | 20 |
| Where the lone wanderer’s raptured footsteps wind | |
| Mid rock, and glancing stream, and shadowy bough; | |
| Where scarce the valley’s leafy depths allow | |
| The intruding sunbeam in their shade to dwell, | |
| There doth the seamaid breathe her human vow,— | 25 |
| So village maidens in their envy tell,— | |
| Won from her dark-blue home by that alluring dell. | |
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| A softer beauty floats along the sky, | |
| The moonbeam dwells upon the voiceless wave; | |
| Far off, the night-winds steal away and die, | 30 |
| Or sleep in music in their ocean cave: | |
| Tall oaks, whose strength the giant-storm might brave, | |
| Bend in rude fondness o’er the silvery sea; | |
| Nor can yon mountain raun forbear to lave | |
| Her blushing clusters where the waters be, | 35 |
| Murmuring around her home such touching melody. | |
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| Thou, quaint Clovelly! in thy shades of rest, | |
| When timid Spring her pleasant task hath sped, | |
| Or Summer pours from her redundant breast | |
| All fruits and flowers along thy valley’s bed: | 40 |
| Yes! and when Autumn’s golden glories spread, | |
| Till we forget near Winter’s withering rage, | |
| What fairer path shall woo the wanderer’s tread, | |
| Soothe wearied hope and worn regret assuage? | |
| Lo! for firm youth a bower, a home for lapsing age. | 45 |
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