A ROBBER STRONGHOLD. 



THE blue hills of Devon are fading far astern. 

 The heights of Exmoor, the rugged coast-line, 

 the little ports whose streets like stairways rise steeply 

 from the sea, are vanishing in the mist of dawn. 

 From the lighthouse tower of Hartland shines a feeble 

 gleam, that ' shows the matin to be near, and 'gins to 

 pale his ineffectual fire.' 



On the smooth water whole fleets of sea-birds ride, 

 idly rocked on the long ocean swell, their white breasts 

 mirrored in the clear green waves. 



Some, at the beat of paddles, start as if from dreams, 

 turn to gaze a moment, and then vanish, diving swift 

 as thought beneath the sea. 



Others, as the boat draws near, reluctantly take 

 wing, some struggling far along the surface before 

 rising clear. 



Right before us, faint and shadowy as some phantom 

 land, dim through the mists of morning, rise the bold, 

 bare cliffs of Lundy. 



Under the shelter of that granite rock, set like a 



