Page:Highways and Byways in Sussex.djvu/287

 ON THE DOWNS.

Broad and bare to the skies The great Down-country lies, Green in the glance of the sun, Fresh with the clean salt air; Screaming the gulls rise from the fresh-turned mould, Where the round bosom of the wind-swept wold Slopes to the valley fair.

Where the pale stubble shines with golden gleam The silver ploughshare cleaves its hard-won way Behind the patient team, The slow black oxen toiling through the day Tireless, impassive still, From dawning dusk and chill To twilight grey.

Far off the pearly sheep Along the upland steep Follow their shepherd from the wattled fold, With tinkling bell-notes falling sweet and cold As a stream's cadence, while a skylark sings High in the blue, with eager outstretched wings, Till the strong passion of his joy be told.

But when the day grows old, And night cometh fold on fold, Dulling the western gold, Blackening bush and tree, Veiling the ranks of cloud, In their pallid pomp and proud That hasten home from the sea, Listen—now and again if the night be still enow, You may hear the distant sea range to and fro Tearing the shingly bourne of his bounden track, Moaning with hate as he fails and falleth back;

The Downs are peopled then; Fugitive, low-browed men Start from the slopes around Over the murky ground Crouching they run with rough-wrought bow and spear, Now seen, now hid, they rise and disappear, Lost in the gloom again.