934 



THE NATURE BOOK 



of the sand-dunes at the hour of sunset, 

 and looking landwards, the scene pre- 

 sented to our view is one of extraordinary 

 and romantic beauty. At our feet lies 

 the lagoon or Little Sea, its still waters 

 reflecting all the glowing glory of the 

 sunset sky. On its further margin the 

 land slopes upwards into gently-swelling, 

 heather-clad hills, which trend away into 

 the purple distance where rise the beautiful 

 Purbeck Hills. As the great ball of the 

 sun slowl}^ sinks in the west, the waters of 



Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from 



them rose 

 A cry that shiver'd to the tinghng stars, 

 And, as it were one voice an agony 

 Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 

 All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 

 Or hath come, since the making of the world." 



For a while a great silence seems to 

 wrap us round, as the twilight deepens 

 into dusk. A silence that fills the heart 

 with a deep feeling of reverence, and of 

 gratitude for the gift of hfe. We seem 



lilii DUNKS KISE HIGIIKK AND HIGHER. 



the Little Sea take on a wondrous silver 

 sheen, and as the first cool breath of the 

 evening wind caresses our cheek, it brings 

 the soft, sad, waihng cry of the wading 

 birds. It seems as if we stood upon the 

 margin of some enchanted lake, of such 

 a lake as that to which the brave Sir 

 Bedivere carried the dying king. Again, 

 the wailing cry comes down the wind, 

 and Tennyson's beautiful lines, instinct 

 with hfe, rise to our hps : 



" And on a sudden lo ! the level lake, 

 ****** 

 Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 

 Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 

 Beneath them ; and desca|iding they were ware 

 That all the decks were dense with stately 



forms 

 Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — 

 by these 



to draw nearer to Nature, and to better 

 understand the marvel and beauty of her 

 work, to dimly reahse something of that 

 mysterious all-pervading Power, which 

 by the work of tide, wind, and vegetation, 

 has during the march of centuries formed 

 the barrier of the sand-dunes. 



As we turn homeward along the sands, 

 the great silver disc of the moon rises and 

 shines across the quiet bay now fiUed 

 with — 



"... such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

 Too full for sound and foam." 



Silvery white stand out the sand-dunes 

 against the deep blue of the evening sky, 

 their miniature valleys filled with dim 

 mysterious shadow. 



F. Martin Duncan. 



