Where the pale stubble shines with golden gleam The silver ploughshare cleaves its hard-won way Behind the patient team, The slow black oxen toiling through the day Tireless, impassive still, From dawning dusk and chill To twilight grey. Far off the pearly sheep Along the upland steep Follow their shepherd from the wattled fold, With tinkling bell-notes falling sweet and cold As a stream's cadence, while a skylark sings High in the blue, with eager outstretched wings, Till the strong passion of his joy be told. But when the day grows old, And night cometh fold on fold, Dulling the western gold, Blackening bush and tree, Veiling the ranks of cloud, In their pallid pomp and proud That hasten home from the sea, Listen--now and again if the night be still enow, You may hear the distant sea range to and fro Tearing the shingly bourne of his bounden track, Moaning with hate as he fails and falleth back; The Downs are peopled then; Fugitive, low-browed men Start from the slopes around Over the murky ground Crouching they run with rough-wrought bow and spear, Now seen, now hid, they rise and disappear, Lost in the gloom again. Soft on the dew-fall damp Scarce sounds the measured tramp Of bronze-mailed sentinels, Dark on the darkened fells Guarding the camp. The Roman watch-fires glow Red on the dusk; and harsh Cries a heron flitting slow Over the valley marsh Where the sea-mist gathers low. Closer, and closer yet Draweth the night's dim net Hiding the troubled dead: No more to see or know But a black waste lying below, And a glimmering blank o'erhead. Of Newhaven there is little to say, except that in rough weather the traveller from France is very glad to reach it, and on a fine day the traveller from England is happy to leave it behind. In the churchyard is a monument in memory of the officers and crew of the _Brazen_, which went down off the town in 1800, and lost all hands save one. [Sidenote: A SUSSEX MILLER]