A real poet he was, but desultory, rarely able to
remain fixed at work and carry out a project to the
end. He was an excellent ballad-writer, but he
could do better than write ballads. He began a
great poem on the "Quest of the Sangreal," but it
remains a fragment.
Here is one short specimen of a ballad, the lament
of a Cornish mother over her dead child:—
"They say't is a sin to sorrow—
That what God doth is best,
But 't is only a month to-morrow
I buried it from my breast.
"I know it should be a pleasure
Your child to God to send;
But mine was a precious treasure,
To me and my poor friend.
"I thought it would call me mother,
The very first words it said;
Oh! I never can love another
Like the blessed babe that 's dead.
"Well, God is its own dear Father,
It was carried to church and bless'd;
And our Saviour's arms will gather
Such children to their rest.
"I will check this foolish sorrow.
For what God doth is best;
But oh! 't is a month to-morrow
I buried it from my breast."
Note.—For further information see my Vicar of Morwenstow. New and revised edition. Methuen. 1899.
