for the justice of the comparison, but certainly this is a glorious prospect. It is a lovely morning; the sun has not long been up, but his effulgence fills the sky with splendour immediately in front, a splendour which trails along the intervening sea, as if it were the fiery monarch's train.[1] Away on the left stretch the bold promontories and abrupt cliffs of Purbeck, twenty miles of purple coast, gradually lessening in apparent height and in distinctness of outline, until the bluff precipice that terminates the line, St. Aldhelm's Head, is lost in the brightness of the eastern horizon. Then the broad expanse of boundless sea brings the eye to Portland on the right, a lofty rounded mass, thrown out into strong light by the opposite sunbeams, and to that noble work the Breakwater, as noble in design and object, as marvellous in execution, which perpetually creeps out into the domain of the sea, presenting an effectual though scarcely visible wall to the waves, until by and by it shall stretch halfway across our present field of view, and inclose a safe harbour of refuge, on which many a mariner will bestow his grateful blessing. At such a time as this sweet April morning, indeed, a work like this may seem of little value, when the waves of the ocean only just suffice to break its face into gems of changing brilliance, and to make whispering music; while vessels of all sizes, like those whose clustering masts we see yonder under the promontory, ride with perfect security in the open road. But in the fierce gales of
- ↑ "Where like an Angel's train
The burnish'd water blaz'd." (Keble.)
