That he was brave the white-haired cragsmen tell,
\nRound all the coast from Hartland to Pentire;
\nAnd shipwreck’d mariners remember well
\nHow grand he look’d when flashed the beacon-fire.<\/p>\n
As down the cliff he rush’d against the gale,
\nWell might he seem the Angel of the Storm;
\nWhile his deep voice the stranded bark would hail,
\nHis strong arm stretch to save some gasping form.<\/p>\n
When falls Tintagel’s tower, it’s solemn chime
\nIn Hawker’s rhythm will echo on the blast,
\nAnd still repeat, ‘Come to thy God in time!’
\nAnd say to each, ‘Come to thy God at last!’<\/p>\n
He heard and went: but where his dust should sleep,
\nTears on a vacant sepulchre are shed;
\nAnd still the cry comes from Morwenna’s steep,
\nComplaining that they bring not home the dead.<\/p>\n
The seabirds miss him on the headland’s verge,
\nAnd wailing seek their guardian ‘mong these graves;
\nAnd to the cavern’d shore’s Aeolian dirge
\nSucceeds the ‘De Profundis’ of the waves.<\/p>\n
Rest where he may, this place is hallowed ground:
\nGenius, Love, Duty, tried by crucial pain,
\nHere in one noble human mould were found,
\nThe secrets of his soul with God remain.<\/p>\n
From The Life and Letters of R. S. Hawker<\/em> edited by C. E Byles. This poem also appears in The Gate of Heaven, The Plaint of Morwenstow, and other verses<\/em> by Henry Sewell Stokes, Liddell & Son, Bodmin, (1876).<\/p>\n