POETRY.
AN EAST-COUNTRY MELODY.
WHEN the dawn sweeps up from Hasebro',
With the daylight at its heels, Across the level surges, To the marrams and the meoLs, It lights with fresher purple The flowers by marsh and quay, The salty blooms of Blakeney And of Cley-next-the-Sea.
When the waves that crumble Cromer Are leaping on the prey,
With a fierce triumphant music Beneath their bannered spray,—
When the strong foundations tremble, And the high cliffs bow the knee, It is safe in little Blakeney And in Cley-next-the-Sea.
When the terraces of shingle Respond with rolling roar To the deep and hungry waters
That clutch at Weybourne shore,—
When the storm-wind's belling bloodhounds Go forth unleashed and free, There is calm in quiet Blakeney And in Cley-next-the-Sea.
Their olden vaunt has vanished, Their ancient pride is prone, Their glory, down the ages, Like flakes of spindrift blown; Yet there's a magic doorway, And there's a misty key To the Houge of Joy, in Blakeney And in Cley-next- the-Sea.
Take all the spires of Norwich, Take all the towers of Lynn, Take all the wealthy acres The red wheat ripples in ; Where whistling breezes beckon,
The way shall be for me,—
The lonely way to Blakeney And to Cley-next-the-Sea. /iLir Bvnox.
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