". . . . . where the sand like silver shines,
Flows the long, monotonous cadence of its unrhymed lyric lines."
And round the rocky bases of the little island yonder—once, so tradition says, a Viking stronghold—there is the low fret of pale green waves. Beyond the island stretches away to the horizon a vast sweep of sea, smooth, unbroken; an expanse of vivid blue, more brilliant than the brightest sapphire. But
"When descends on the Atlantic
The gigantic
Storm-wind of the equinox,"
then the huge green rollers come charging up this narrow strait, and thunder in the caverns of the cliff, whirling great flakes of foam a hundred feet into the air. They are gentle waves that lap to-day against the rocky wall. But there is no stormier sea when, on rough nights of winter,
"The wild winds lift it in their grasp,
And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece."
A few brown-sailed luggers are cruising in the bay,—mackerel fishing perhaps. The pilchards have deserted this coast altogether. Some of the men say that the constant passing of steamers has disturbed them. Others declare "there have been no pilchards since the new parson came, and there'll be none till he's turned his back on the parish."
On the verge of the next headland, a rampart of grey cliff that stands out towards the open Atlantic, are two great grave mounds, mere flaws on the horizon's edge, piled over the ashes of some long-forgotten warriors. There is a legend here that, at midnight, two kings in golden armour rise from these green barrows, and fight on the short sward of the downs until the lighthouse on the far point