THE TOM HURD ROCK. 263 



giants : but it is seaward we direct our gaze St. 

 George's sun-lit channel and the Solway Frith yonder 

 the Scottish coast, stretching away for many a lengthy 

 league and there, upon the horizon, rests the Isle of 

 Man. And now, with steady courage scan the depth 

 beneath : 



" Come on, sir ; here 's the place : stand still. How fearful 

 And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low! 

 The crows and choughs that wing the midway air, 

 Show scarce so gross as beetles : half way down 

 Hangs one that gathers samphire ; dreadful trade ! 

 Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : 

 The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, 

 Appear like mice, and yon tall anchoring bark 

 Diminish'd to her cock j her cock, a buoy 

 Almost too small for sight : the murmuring surge, 

 That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes, 

 Cannot be heard so high : I '11 look no more j 

 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 

 Topple down headlong." 



Observe yon rocky mass, which, like a couchant 

 lion, seems to guard the entrance to the port of 

 Whitehaven, and against which the waves are dashing, 

 flinging up their spray that is the Tom Hurd rock. 



And pray who was Tom Hurd, whose name is thus 

 immortalized ? 



Ah ! 'tis a sad tale, exclaimed my kind instructor. 

 Poor Tom Hurd ! he was a fine young lad, sir a 

 sailor who was courting a young lass here at White- 

 haven, when he was ordered off to sea, and for some 

 years was never heard of; but his heart was true, and 

 so was hers. At last his ship returned, and heartily 

 Tom Hurd was welcomed back again, and cheerily 



