POETRY.

GWENDRON SANDS (CORNWALL).

HERE, with heart and limbs at rest,

On the beach we lie, possessed With the peace that comes of mingled sweet and bitter memories ; All around the children play On the sands of Gwendron Bay, And the restless joy of childhood stirs their tongues and fires their eyes.

Eight of us this August morn Came through fields of blowing corn, By the broken cross of granite, past the churchyard on the hill : With their spades and buckets laden, Active boy and cheerful maiden ; Three of us have once been children, and the rest are children still. All we love is here to-day, All we loathe is far away ; Far away the spiteful neighbour, far away the candid friend, And the stale and hideous street, Where men prate, and sneer, and cheat, And the fulsome daily faces, and the cares which know no end.

On the soft and cream-white sand, At their work the children stand, Digging, piling up a castle till it tops their tallest head ; We at first but sit and gaze, Idly basking in the blaze, Thinking of the noble living, and the unforgotten dead.

Souls, like rising stars who climb, Beaconing to all later time, And the glorious truths of science, and the harmonies of art ; Till a breath, we know not whence, Faint, but mastering every sense, Sweeps the madness from the brain, and sweeps the sickness from the heart.

In our minds this dream of peace Blends with ancient memories, And this glow of light and colour throbs with human hopes and fears ; Yonder, where the children play, Smiles the freshness of to-day On the still unwithered beauty of earth's hundred million years.

Hark, the children's shouts of joy !

And behold our eldest boy, With the frank delight of childhood shining in his violet eyes !

Say, what treasure rich and rare Do those sun-browned fingers bear ?

With what glee he laughs and dances as he shows his glittering prize ! Strange, this witness of the past Thus restored to light at last ; 'Tis a Spanish silver dollar, dated seventeen ninety-nine ; Here in profile you may trace Clear and sharp, a Bourbon face ; There "Plus Ultra," with the pillars, and the wreaths that round them twine.

For in this wide curve of bay, Where these happy children play, Came to pass a thing of terror in the war-time long ago; When the 'Santa Clara' sank In yon quicksand's foam-edged bank, Freighted with six million dollars from the mines of Mexico.

Gleamed her sails with summer dews When she cleared from Vera Cruz, Where the sparkling tropic ocean 'neath the tropic heav'n expands : Dark the wild November day When she sighted Gwendron Bay, And the fell Atlantic rollers bursting on the Gwendron sands.

Softly blew the western breeze, Wafting her o'er tranquil seas, Till, unscathed by war and tempest, she had rounded the Azores ; Then two months of baffling gales, Left her with rent shrouds and sails, Hunted by three English cruisers, driven upon the English shores.

That November mist was lifting, As the Spaniard still was drifting To the endless line of breakers which a navy might o'erwhelm ; And the gorgeous flag of Spain Floated proudly at the main :— Now her perilous course she alters, answering slowly to the helm.

All too late the change, too late Has the Spaniard guessed his fate, Seen the headlands far to windward, and that curve of glimmering white ; In that desperate danger caught, Skill and bravery, all is naught ; 'Twixt the cruisers and the quicksands he can neither sail nor fight. Cannot even surrender save ?

. See but now that white flag wave From a little knot of sailors at the month of Gwendron Creek ; Strike the flag that floats upon her, And surrender with all honour ; We will board you with a pilot :—such the word they meant to speak.

Now they signal to the shore, And their flag the Spaniards low'r ; Instantly a score of hands prepare the pilot-gig to launch ; Down with her ! the sailors cry ;— Need for steady hand and eye, Need for movements swift and cautious, iron sinews, courage staunch !

What means this P The signals stop, And the flag has ceased to drop ; Have the signal-halyards parted, that the flag keeps half-mast high ? No! the banner of old Spain To the mast-head roars again :-- 'Twas the last, the dying tribute of a courteous enemy.

No surrender : fare ye well ! Is the tale those signals tell ; Deemed ye not the Spanish Captain of his freight the doom foreknew?

'Twould an English fleet provide To beat down his country's pride ; Sooner than such wrong should happen, perish he and all his crew 1 So, between the shore and sea Rest the Spaniards, quietly As the tenants of the churchyard 'mid the sandhills overhead ; Years no thought of man can measure Will they guard their country's treasure ; Surer far than earth or ocean doth the quicksand keep its dead.

Ended is our day of calm, Raining light and breathing balm :— Still the lingering rose of sundown all the eastern coast pervades ; But the lighthouse o'er the bay Brightens with a sudden ray, And the pleased but weary children gather up their pails and