And, like a drunken giant, sobbed in sleep.
On a rushy knoll, in a moor in the parish of Morwenstow, rises the Tamar,[[15]] and from the same mount flows the Torridge.
Fount of a rushing river! wild flowers wreathe
The home where thy first waters sunlight claim;
The lark sits hushed beside thee while I breathe,
Sweet Tamar spring! the music of thy name.
On through thy goodly channel, on! to the sea!
Pass amid heathery vale, tall rock, fair bough;
But never more with footstep pure and free,
Or face so meek with happiness as now.