H4 Idylls of the Field. 



where the breath of clover mingles with the fragrance 

 of the thyme, have been trampled by the heels of 

 Spanish captains, who forced the ill-guarded path and 

 plundered the defenceless islanders. 



The ports of Devon long remembered the corsair 

 Algerines who moored their galleys in the bay. 

 Over and over again the privateers of France found 

 sanctuary here and made booty of the shipping of 

 the Channel. 



Once a French war-ship, with false colours flying, 

 asked leave to bury, in the ancient graveyard on the 

 hill, the body of her captain. The leave was granted. 

 The funeral party came ashore, passed with slow pace 

 up the steep road, and laid their burden down within 

 the church. 



Few minutes, however, had elapsed when a body of 

 men, armed with weapons that had been hidden in 

 the coffin, rushed out upon the helpless islanders. 

 Everything of value was taken or wantonly destroyed. 

 Cattle were thrown into the sea, the forts were dis- 

 mantled, the guns hurled over the cliff. 



So runs the story ; and still upon the beach there 

 lies a long iron gun that, thrown from the steep brow 

 overhead, for two centuries has rusted in the shingle. 



Long since ruined is the ancient church ; no trace 

 but the foundation now remains. 



But the graveyard round is full to overflowing with 

 grass-grown mounds, nameless and dateless, hidden 

 deep in fern and bramble. 



