Sprinkled along the waste of years Full many a soft green isle appears: Pause where we may upon the desert road, Some shelter is in sight, some sacred safe abode. KebleThe Christian Year. The First Sunday in Advent. St. 8.
Sark, fairer than aught in the world that the lit skies cover, Laughs inly behind her cliffs, and the seafarers mark As a shrine where the sunlight serves, though the blown clouds hover, Sark. SwinburneInsularum Ocelle.
Island of bliss! amid the subject Seas, That thunder round thy rocky coasts, set up, At once the wonder, terror, and delight Of distant nations; whose remotest shore Can soon be shaken by thy naval arm; Not to be shook thyself, but all assaults Baffling, like thy hoar cliffs the loud sea-wave. ThomsonSeasons. Summer. L. 1,597.