( " Jersey dort dans les flots. " )
Jersey, lulled by the waves' eternal chime,
Sleeps; in her smallness being twice sublime;
A rocky mountain, — born amid blue sea.
Old England northward, southward Normandy,
Our sweet she is, and in her summer-trance
Hath the bright smiles, and oft the tears, of France
For the third time now her flowers and fruits I've seen.
O land of Exile, little island queen,
Be blest of me as by thy billows blest!
This small bright nook where the tired soul finds rest,
If 'twere my country, were my haven of life.
Here, as some mariner from sea-stormy strife
Rescued, I'd dwell, and suffer with delight
The sun shine all my darkling soul snow-white
Like yonder linen bleaching on the grass.
Musing profoundly seems each rocky mass;
Within whose hollow caverns waves forever
Gurgle and sob. When evening falleth, shiver
The trees, weird sibyls with the wind for wail;
While the huge cromlech, like a spectre pale,
Towers on the hill, till 'neath the wan moon-ray
It turns to Moloch grinning o'er his prey.
Along the beach, when blow the strong west-winds,
In every craggy corner where one finds
Frail fisher-huts, across the thatch that slopes
Seaward, are stretched stone-weighted briny ropes,
Lest by the blast the roof be torn away.
With bosom bare, some old-world ocean-lay
Each mother to her sailor babe doth drawl,
What time from out the surf a boat they haul; —
While laugh the meadows.
Hail, O sacred Isle,
That brightliest to heaven's rosiest dawn dost smile!
Hail beacons, stars by fisher-folk best blest!
Old mossy church-towers where blithe swallows nest!
Poor altars rudely carved by fishermen!
Elm-shadowed roads where creaks the heavy wain;
Gardens bright-flushed with flowers of every dye;
Streams with blue sea for goal, dreams with blue sky, —
All hail!
On the horizon wings snow-white
Of vessels; nearer shore the sea-mews' flight, —
Old Ocean's fearless wave-delighting flock!
Lo, Venus smiling on each storm-scarred rock,
What time, — to song of birds and billows born, —
She gives to heaven the rosy-dimpled Morn.
O heather on the hills! foam on the waves!
Cybele's crumbling palace ocean laves!
Rough mountain soothed by ocean melodies!
Lowing of kine! Sweet slumber beneath trees!
The island seems immersed in voiceless prayer,
Not to be turned therefrom, though ocean, air,
Around her blend their vast defiant chaunts,
The cloud weeps, passing; lo, the rock that vaunts
Upon its spur how many a brave ship riven,
Keeps on its crest for the bird a little dew of heaven!
Jersey, lulled by the waves' eternal chime,
Sleeps; in her smallness being twice sublime;
A rocky mountain, — born amid blue sea.
Old England northward, southward Normandy,
Our sweet she is, and in her summer-trance
Hath the bright smiles, and oft the tears, of France
For the third time now her flowers and fruits I've seen.
O land of Exile, little island queen,
Be blest of me as by thy billows blest!
This small bright nook where the tired soul finds rest,
If 'twere my country, were my haven of life.
Here, as some mariner from sea-stormy strife
Rescued, I'd dwell, and suffer with delight
The sun shine all my darkling soul snow-white
Like yonder linen bleaching on the grass.
Musing profoundly seems each rocky mass;
Within whose hollow caverns waves forever
Gurgle and sob. When evening falleth, shiver
The trees, weird sibyls with the wind for wail;
While the huge cromlech, like a spectre pale,
Towers on the hill, till 'neath the wan moon-ray
It turns to Moloch grinning o'er his prey.
Along the beach, when blow the strong west-winds,
In every craggy corner where one finds
Frail fisher-huts, across the thatch that slopes
Seaward, are stretched stone-weighted briny ropes,
Lest by the blast the roof be torn away.
With bosom bare, some old-world ocean-lay
Each mother to her sailor babe doth drawl,
What time from out the surf a boat they haul; —
While laugh the meadows.
Hail, O sacred Isle,
That brightliest to heaven's rosiest dawn dost smile!
Hail beacons, stars by fisher-folk best blest!
Old mossy church-towers where blithe swallows nest!
Poor altars rudely carved by fishermen!
Elm-shadowed roads where creaks the heavy wain;
Gardens bright-flushed with flowers of every dye;
Streams with blue sea for goal, dreams with blue sky, —
All hail!
On the horizon wings snow-white
Of vessels; nearer shore the sea-mews' flight, —
Old Ocean's fearless wave-delighting flock!
Lo, Venus smiling on each storm-scarred rock,
What time, — to song of birds and billows born, —
She gives to heaven the rosy-dimpled Morn.
O heather on the hills! foam on the waves!
Cybele's crumbling palace ocean laves!
Rough mountain soothed by ocean melodies!
Lowing of kine! Sweet slumber beneath trees!
The island seems immersed in voiceless prayer,
Not to be turned therefrom, though ocean, air,
Around her blend their vast defiant chaunts,
The cloud weeps, passing; lo, the rock that vaunts
Upon its spur how many a brave ship riven,
Keeps on its crest for the bird a little dew of heaven!