A BALLAD OF SARK.

High beyond the granite portal arched across

Like the gateway of some godlike giant's hold

Sweep and swell the billowy breasts of moor and moss

East and westward, and the dell their slopes enfold

Basks in purple, glows in green, exults in gold

Glens that know the dove and fells that hear the lark

Fill with joy the rapturous island, as an ark

Full of spicery wrought from herb and flower and tree.

None would dream that grief even here may disembark

On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

Rocks emblazoned like the mid shield's royal boss

Take the sun with all their blossom broad and bold.

None would dream that all this moorland's glow and gloss

Could be dark as tombs that strike the spirit acold

Even in eyes that opened here, and here behold

Now no sun relume from hope's belated spark

Any comfort, nor may ears of mourners hark

Though the ripe woods ring with golden-throated glee,

While the soul lies shattered, like a stranded bark

On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

Death and doom are they whose crested triumphs toss

On the proud plumed waves whence mourning notes are tolled.

Wail of perfect woe and moan for utter loss

Raise the bride-song through the graveyard on the wold

Where the bride-bed keeps the bridegroom fast in mould,

Where the bride, with death for priest and doom for clerk,

Hears for choir the throats of waves like wolves that bark,

Sore anhungered, off the drear Eperquerie,

Fain to spoil the strongholds of the strength of Sark

On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

Prince of storm and tempest, lord whose ways are dark,

Wind whose wings are spread for flight that none may mark,

Lightly dies the joy that lives by grace of thee.

Love through thee lies bleeding, hope lies cold and stark,

On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.