Illa Creek

A strong sea-wind flies up and sings     Across the blown-wet border,     Whose stormy echo runs and rings     Like bells in wild disorder.     Fierce breath hath vexed the forelands face,     It glistens, glooms, and glistens;     But deep within this quiet place     Sweet Illa lies and listens.     Sweet Illa of the shining sands,     She sleeps in shady hollows,     Where August flits with flowerful hands,     And silver Summer follows.     Far up the naked hills is heard     A noise of many waters,     But green-haired Illa lies unstirred     Amongst her star-like daughters.     The tempest, pent in moaning ways,     Awakes the shepherd yonder,     But Illa dreams unknown to days     Whose wings are wind and thunder.     Here fairy hands and floral feet     Are brought by bright October;     Here, stained with grapes and smit with heat,     Comes Autumn, sweet and sober.     Here lovers rest, what time the red     And yellow colours mingle,     And daylight droops with dying head     Beyond the western dingle.     And here, from month to month, the time     Is kissed by peace and pleasure,     While Nature sings her woodland rhyme     And hoards her woodland treasure.     Ah, Illa Creek! ere evening spreads     Her wings oer towns unshaded,     How oft we seek thy mossy beds     To lave our foreheads faded!     For, let me whisper, then we find     The strength that lives, nor falters,     In wood and water, waste and wind,     And hidden mountain altars.