Classic Poem

Hill-warded haven, creek well found
To sailors on thy stormy shore,
When 'midst the waters' deaf'ning roar,
They step on this thy peaceful ground,
As blest with happy homes, at hand,
Or strangers on a foreign land.

As softly sinks from fear to rest
The hunted stag, at last, hound free,
The ship that ploughs the stormy sea
Here stills her billow-beaten breast,
And yields her welcome freight to fill
Her hold with works of Bridport skill.

Here, fair from ev'ry shipwright's tool,
The new ship plunges from the stocks,
And chafes her first white foam, and rocks
On heaving waters of thy pool,
Now soon to waft her crew, in hope,
O'er longsome tracts of sea-wide scope.

The birds, where lay Prometheus bound,
Still ate, with everlasting bills,
His growing lungs, and these two hills
So yield to eating waves their ground,
That wastes in this receding shore,
But wastes, alas! to grow no more.

How many untold years have run
Since those two now half hills were whole,
And man beheld the waters roll
Where they sank, grassy to the sun,
Long ere the sea had cast the sand
And far-borne pebbles on this strand.

May ev'ry ship that commerce sends
From thee, O peaceful little creek,
Come back full-rigged, without a leak,
With men to wives, and friends to friends;
May Heaven speed both to and fro
All ships that here may come and go.