Footprints on the Sand. 103 



rolls a sea of graves. The wind and the rain have 

 dealt but hardly with the ancient stones. No kindly 

 chisel clears the gathering moss with which Time has 

 blurred the rude inscriptions. The iron tongues, at 

 whose fierce summons all the country rose to face the 

 fleet of Spain, hang silent in the deserted belfry. In 

 a corner of the chuchyard, thick with nameless graves, 

 the form of many an ill-fated mariner whom the tide 

 has laid upon the shore, has found a resting-place at 

 last. No headstones mark their rest; they lie un- 

 known 



' husbands, brothers, sons 

 Of desolate women in their far-off homes 

 Waiting to hear the step that never comes.' 



