A SEA-BIRDS' HAUNT. 



IT is the north end of Lundy. 

 Among the short heath that purples all the hill, 

 patches of bare grey granite rise, like the brows of 

 ancient cliffs deep sunk amid a sea of green. 



There is no sign or sound of man, or beast, or bird, 

 save the sharp note of a stonechat swaying on a spike 

 of foxglove, or the faint cry of a wandering gull, whose 

 white wings float a moment over the shoulders of the 

 hill. 



No sound is there even of the sea, that in the soft 

 air of summer sleeps far down about the bases of the 

 cliffs. 



A wall of granite bars the way — a pile of worn and 

 lichen-covered blocks, with all their ledges set with 

 yellow hawkweed and pale tufts of thrift. 



A narrow pass leads downward through the rocks, 

 and opens — like some gate of magic — on another 

 world. 



To right and left lies a broad hollow — a stretch of 

 grass that slopes steeply to the sea, bright with mingled 



