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258 THE SUSSEX COAST |
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Whereby no tattered herbage tells
Which way the season flies— Only our wind-bit thyme that smells
Like dawn in Paradise.
Here through the strong and shadeless days
A tinkling silence thrills ; Or little, lost, Down churches praise
The Lord who made the hills. But here the old Gods guard their round,
And in her secret heart The heathen-kingdom Wilfrid found
Dreams, as she dwells, apart.
Much fairly good poetry has been written about Sussex, and some of it by Sussexians, but it must be mournfully confessed that we owe the very best to those whom Sussex has inspired but has not bred. There are Sussex poets for whom a very high rank may be claimed, to mention only Thomas Sackville, John Fletcher, Thomas Otway, William Collins, Percy Bysshe Shelley, but there is very little of Sussex about them, save only their origin. The county has made a liberal contribution to English literature, but we have nothing like a Sussex School to put beside those of the Lakes or of the Scottish Lowlands.
On the cliffs opposite Telscombe a new town is projected, but though a post-office is provided there is very little more. The chief attraction of the place is the view straight over the Channel from the top of the chalk cliffs. Behind spreads furze-covered Down, and it is extraordinary how unlikely it seems there are any houses in a certain combe till one suddenly comes right on the old village. It is one of the loneliest in Sussex, though close to large towns—on the map. The church has nave and north aise of late |
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