Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.



By Robert Stephen Hawker (1803–1875)

’T IS eve! ’t is glimmering eve! how fair the scene,

Touched by the soft hues of the dreamy west!

Dim hills afar, and happy vales between,

With the tall corn’s deep furrow calmly blest:

Beneath, the sea! by Eve’s fond gale caressed,

Mid groves of living green that fringe its side;

Dark sails that gleam on ocean’s heaving breast

From the glad fisher-barks that homeward glide,

To make Clovelly’s shores at pleasant evening-tide.

Hearken! the mingling sounds of earth and sea,

The pastoral music of the bleating flock,

Blent with the sea-bird’s uncouth melody,

The waves’ deep murmur to the unheeding rock;

And ever and anon the impatient shock

Of some strong billow on the sounding shore:

And hark! the rowers’ deep and well-known stroke,

Glad hearts are there, and joyful hands once more

Furrow the whitening wave with their returning oar.

But turn where Art with votive hand hath twined

A living wreath for Nature’s grateful brow,

Where the lone wanderer’s raptured footsteps wind

Mid rock, and glancing stream, and shadowy bough;

Where scarce the valley’s leafy depths allow

The intruding sunbeam in their shade to dwell,

There doth the seamaid breathe her human vow,—

So village maidens in their envy tell,—

Won from her dark-blue home by that alluring dell.

A softer beauty floats along the sky,

The moonbeam dwells upon the voiceless wave;

Far off, the night-winds steal away and die,

Or sleep in music in their ocean cave:

Tall oaks, whose strength the giant-storm might brave,

Bend in rude fondness o’er the silvery sea;

Nor can yon mountain raun forbear to lave

Her blushing clusters where the waters be,

Murmuring around her home such touching melody.

Thou, quaint Clovelly! in thy shades of rest,

When timid Spring her pleasant task hath sped,

Or Summer pours from her redundant breast

All fruits and flowers along thy valley’s bed:

Yes! and when Autumn’s golden glories spread,

Till we forget near Winter’s withering rage,

What fairer path shall woo the wanderer’s tread,

Soothe wearied hope and worn regret assuage?

Lo! for firm youth a bower, a home for lapsing age.