CLEVEDON CHURCH.

Westward I watch the low green hills of Wales,

The low sky silver grey,

The turbid Channel with the wandering sails

Moans through the winter day.

There is no colour but one ashen light

On tower and lonely tree,

The little church upon the windy height

Is grey as sky or sea.

But there hath he that woke the sleepless Love

Slept through these fifty years,

There is the grave that has been wept above

With more than mortal tears.

And far below I hear the Channel sweep

And all his waves complain,

As Hallam's dirge through all the years must keep

Its monotone of pain.

Grey sky, brown waters, as a bird that flies,

My heart flits forth from these

Back to the winter rose of northern skies,

Back to the northern seas.

And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat

Below the minster grey,

Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet,

And knees of them that pray.

And I remember me how twain were one

Beside that ocean dim,

I count the years passed over since the sun

That lights me looked on him,

And dreaming of the voice that, save in sleep,

Shall greet me not again,

Far, far below I hear the Channel sweep

And all his waves complain.