POEMS OF SUSSEX PLACES. 117
No miracle is this for those whose creed
Holds that the saints who dwell in heaven above Look down on human trial, woe, and love;
And help us in the darkest hour of need.
Even those who doubt may love the legend quaint Of good Cecilia, now eight centuries dead, Who bound the flames with Faith's own slender thread
And prayed to great Bartholomew the Saint.
Herstmonceux. To Herstmonceux, or to Hellingley, with perhaps equal appropriateness may be referred Mr. M. A. Lower's " Lord Dacre, his mournful end."
The picturesque beauty of " The little Church in the Wood " has suggested the following :—
I see a little church with low-set spire, Encircled by a grove of ancient trees— With branches rythmic to the passing breeze ; And now I hear from out the village choir,
The song of praise that to the heavens aspire, And mingled with these formal litanies The far-off murmur of the distant seas And the sweet scent of wild rose and of briar.
I pause entranced this scene of peace to mark, When 'mid the blue I see a rising lark; He sings and soars and rises high and higher, A speck upon the sun 'tween day and dark,
From lowly nest down in the grass and mire, He seeks the sun and basks him at its fire.