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CLOVELLY. 



Tis Eve ! 'tis glimmering Eve ! how fair the scene 



Touch 'd 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 caress'd 



Mid groves of living green that fringe its side ; 

 White 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 ! 

 Harken ! the mingling sounds of Earth jand Sea I 



The pastoral music of the bleating flock 

 Blent with the Seabird's uncouth melody ; — 



The wave's deep murmur to the unheeding rock, 

 And ever and anon, the impatient shock 



Of some strong billow on the sounding shore : 

 And hark ! the rower's deep and well-known stroke, 



Glad hearts are there, and joyful hands once more 



Furrow the whitening wave with their returning oar ! 



But turn where Art with votive hand hath twin'd 



A living wreath for Nature's grateful brow, — 

 Where the lone wanderer's raptur'd footsteps wind 



Mid rock and glancing stream and shadowy bough ; 

 Where scaice the Valley's leafy depths allow 



The intruding Sunbeam in their shade to dwell, — 

 There doth the Sea-Maid breathe her human vow. 



So Village Maidens in their envy tell, — 



Won from her dark-blue home by that alluring dell I 

 A softer heauti/ floats along the sky, — 



The moonbeam dwells upon the voiceless wave ; 

 Far-off, the night winds steal away and die, 



Or sleep in music in their Ocean-cave : — 

 Tall oaks, whose strength the Giant Storm tnight brave, 



Bend in rude fondness o^er the silvery sea ; 

 Nor can yon Mountain Ash forbear to lave 



Her bhishing clusters, where the Waters be 



Murmuring around her home such touching uiclody ! 



Western 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 ; — 

 Yes ! and when Autumn's golden glories spread 



Till we forget near Winter's wakening 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 I 



Printed and Publi>ihrd by G. Hearder, Buckwdl Street, Pluwnvfh. 



