2 Idylls of the Field. 



shore that sweeps its winding miles far down the 

 coast. 



Cold and dark are the little islets whose grim rocks 

 break the sky-line. Clear cut above the nearest stands 

 out St. Cuthbert's Tower, whose massive masonry has 

 weathered the rude blasts of ages. Boldly, too, upon 

 the saffron sky rises the tall shaft of the famous light- 

 house that for fifty years has been associated with the 

 story of a woman's daring and devotion. There, too, 

 still remain the old fire-beacons that even in this 

 century threw their fitful glare across the waves. 



The sands of yonder bay are strewn with the black 

 skeletons of ships ; round those cruel reefs a hundred 

 gallant craft lie deep beneath the sea. 



You may read the story of the coast among the 

 houses of the hamlet. Here a gate is hung from a 

 broken spar. There a battered figure-head lies by the 

 cottage door. Yonder an old ship's bell hung in the 

 entry startles the visitor with its sullen clang, as if in 

 echo of the sound of doom, when rough billows dashed 

 the iron tongue against the shuddering metal. 



Cold and gloomy is the stonework of the great grim 

 fortress that here, on the brink of the northern sea, 

 rises above its skirts of black basalt, calm and defiant 

 still as in the days when its garrison had naught to 

 fear by land or sea save treachery within the gates. 

 There is no sign of life about its towers and parapets, 

 except the troop of daws that, with sharp and eager 

 clamour, float round the massive keep, or alight on 



