|
John Harris's love of nature is predominant through his poems.
The
Cornish Chough
WHERE
not a sound is heard
But the white waves,
0 bird,
And slippery rocks fling
back the vanquish'd sea,
Thou soarest in thy
pride,
Not heeding storm or
tide;
In Freedom's temple
nothing is more free.
'T
is pleasant by this stone,
Sea-wash'd and weed-o'ergrown,
With Solitude and Silence
at my side,
To list the solemn
roar
Of ocean on the
shore,
And up the beetling cliff
to see thee glide.
Though
harsh thy earnest cry.
On crag, or shooting
high
Above the tumult of this
dusty sphere,
Thou tellest of the
steep
Where Peace and
Quiet sleep,
And noisy man but rarely
visits here.
For
this I love thee, bird.
And feel my pulses
stirr'd
To see thee grandly on
the high air ride,
Or float along the
land,
Or drop upon the
sand,
Or perch within the
gully's frowning side.
Thou
bringest the sweet thought
Of some straw-cover'd
cot,
On the lone moor beside
the bubbling well,
Where cluster wife
and child,
And bees hum o'er
the wild:
In this seclusion it were
joy to dwell.
Will
such a quiet bower
Be ever more my
dower
In this rough region of
perpetual strife?
I like a bird from
home
Forward and backward
roam;
But there is rest beneath
the Tree of Life.
In
this dark world of din,
Of selfishness and
sin,
Help me, dear Saviour, on
Thy love to rest;
That, having cross'd
life's sea,
My shatter'd bark
may be
Moor'd safely in the
haven of the blest.
The
Muse at this sweet hour
Hies with me to my
bower
Among the heather of my
native hill;
The rude rock-hedges
here
And mossy turf, how
dear!
What gushing song! how fresh
the moors and still!
No
spot of earth like thee,
So full of heaven to
me,
O hill of rock, piled to
the passing cloud!
Good spirits in
their flight
Upon thy crags
alight,
And leave a glory where
they brightly bow'd.
I
well remember now,
In boy-days on thy
brow,
When first my lyre among
thy larks I found,
Stealing from
mother's side
Out on the common
wide,
Strange Druid footfalls
seem'd to echo round.
Dark
Cornish chough, for thee
My shred of
minstrelsy
I carol at this
meditative hour,
Linking thee with my
reed,
Grey moor and grassy
mead,
Dear carn and cottage,
heathy bank and bower.
 | 
