THE 
 
 > VFCTA GARLAND. «
 
 S3 
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
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 THE 
 
 ISLE OF AVIGHT SOUVENIR ; 
 
 CONSISTING OF 
 
 ORIGINAL POEMS ON THE SCENERY AND BEAUTY OF THE 
 
 ISLE OF WIGHT; 
 WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 EMBELLISHED WITH TWELVE BEAUTIFUL STEEL ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 BY ALBEET MIDLANE. 
 
 LONDON: RICHARD GRIFFIN AND CO.; 
 
 RYDE : JAMES BUIDDON, CROSS STREET. 
 SOLD ALSO BY MESSRS. QUBBINS, NEWPORT; SPARRY, VENTNOR ; 
 
 AND ALL BOOKSELLERS. 
 
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 PREFACE. 
 
 
 Some apology may be needed in sending forth this little 
 work upon the beauties and interesting objects of "my own 
 native Isle." 
 
 Linked by every fond association to these scenes from 
 earliest infancy, the writer appreciates their loveliness with 
 somewhat of a lover's partiality ; and will be forgiven, if, in 
 strains which are no exaggeration to his mind, he may seem 
 to the more cool observer to have subjected himself to the 
 charge of enthusiasm. 
 
 Singly, solely, at the impulse of vivid emotion these little 
 pieces were first penned. At the solicitation of friends, many 
 found their way into the fugitive press. But no idea was 
 entertained of bringing them out in any more compact and 
 permanent form, until the scheme was suggested by a valued 
 friend, not now resident in the Island, to whose judgment the 
 writer could not but pay deference. To this friend, these 
 poems are largely indebted for literary assistance, as valuable 
 as spontaneous. 
 
 He now sends his little volume forth, in the hope that it 
 may have some interest for the traveller, and that it may
 
 11 PREFACE. 
 
 meet with kindly patronage from the occupants of the locali- 
 ties it depicts. 
 
 The Island has but few native descriptive writers; 
 and many of the scenes here depicted are hitherto unsung, 
 although storied with the imagery of other days. 
 
 To all friends who have shown interest in this under- 
 taking, the writer would take this opportunity of tendering 
 his warm and cordial thanks. 
 
 And now, in the words of Henry Kirk White, he would 
 say : " Such are the poems towards which I entreat the lenity 
 of the public. The critic will doubtless find in them much to 
 condemn ; he may, likewise, possibly discover something to 
 commend. Let him scan my faults with an indulgent eye, 
 and in the work of that correction which I invite, let him, 
 remember he is holding the iron mace of criticism over the 
 flimsy superstructure of a youth; and remembering that, may 
 he forbear from crushing by too much rigour, the painted 
 butterfly, whose transient colours may otherwise be capable of 
 affording a moments innocent amusement." 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Newport, Isle of Wight, July, 1860
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Vecta Isle 1 
 
 My Own Native Isle 2 
 
 Caeisbbooke Bells 5 
 
 Past Down 7 
 
 The Abbey of Quaeb 9 
 
 Beading Cemeteey 11 
 
 Marvel Copse 12 
 
 My Island Home H 
 
 Osborne 15 
 
 The Bivee Medina 16 
 
 Mount Joy 18 
 
 Nunwell 20 
 
 The Dbopping Bock 22 
 
 Deadman's Lane 23 
 
 Appulduecombe 24 
 
 My Native Isle 26 
 
 Caeisbbooke Castle • 27 
 
 The Vale oe Aereton 30 
 
 The Beacon on Feeshwatee Down 31 
 
 Farewell to Old St. Thomas's 32 
 
 The Pulpit Bock 34 
 
 Black-gang Chine t 36 
 
 The Walks abound my Native Town 37 
 
 The Pond, Bonchurch 39 
 
 The Captive Freed 40
 
 11 INDEX. 
 
 The Bells of St. Thomas's Chubch 42 
 
 Shanklin Chine 43 
 
 The Lovely Isle 46 
 
 Swainston c , , , 48 
 
 The Islander's Invitation . . . , 50 
 
 Alum Bay 52 
 
 Ashey Down 53 
 
 The Fatal Stoem 55 
 
 Mount Miseey 56 
 
 St. Lawrence Well 53 
 
 Caeisbeooke Cemeteey 61 
 
 The Islandee's Song 62 
 
 The Complaint 64 
 
 Luccombe Chine 65 
 
 The Fatal Step 67 
 
 The TTndeecliff 70 
 
 Reminiscence of Old May Day 75 
 
 Mottestone 75 
 
 Victoeia's Island Home 76 
 
 The Wishing Well 78 
 
 Yecta 80 
 
 The Needle Bocks 82 
 
 My Island Ocean Steand 85 
 
 The Villagb Geeen 86 
 
 The " Young Cottagee's " Cottage 88 
 
 Pabkhuest Peison 91 
 
 The "Dairyman's Daughter's" Cottage 93 
 
 St. Catherine's Hill 95 
 
 New poet House 97 
 
 Tin: Way-side Flowees 99 
 
 Ve< i \'s Welcome to Hee Majesty 101
 
 INDEX. Ill 
 
 Vecta's Welcome to H.R.H. the Princess William 
 
 oe Prussia 103 
 
 Mr Native Town 105 
 
 The Clouds 108 
 
 Summer's Evening 109 
 
 Happy Hours 112 
 
 The Invocation 115 
 
 What is Life ? , 117 
 
 The Early Hour 118 
 
 Down in the Meadows 119 
 
 " The Shadow of the Cross " 120 
 
 Thoughts on the Sea-shore 122 
 
 The Falling Leaves 123 
 
 The Banks of Medina 124 
 
 The Slighted Eose 125 
 
 Without and Within 127 
 
 Thr Preference , , 129 
 
 St. Lawrence 130 
 
 The Rustic Stile 132 
 
 St. Cross, near Newport 134 
 
 Habit 136 
 
 Winter 137 
 
 Song of the New Year . . . . k , 138 
 
 The Advance of Spring 139 
 
 Sonnet 140 
 
 Sonnet to Edmund Peel, Esq., of Ponchurch, 141 
 
 Sonnet to the Seasons 142 
 
 The Theme which never Tires 142
 
 POEMS, ETC. 
 
 VECTA'S ISLE. 
 
 " Fairest of Isle6, that stud the British main."— Atkins. 
 
 Sweet Isle of the South, from the Solent emerging ! 
 
 I sing of the beauty my heart would enshrine ; 
 Which to fairy creations of fancy is verging, 
 
 The sweetest of spots washed by old Ocean's brine. 
 
 speak not of fountains where nymphs of old bsfcked, £& ,- 
 
 Nor of vales where the goddesses trod ; 
 Nor of groves, where in concert they sportfully waved, 
 
 x^nd enchanted the eyes of their God. 
 
 No ! these, with the fabulous rivers and streams, 
 Which the gods with strange virtues endow, 
 
 Are but the fantastic chimerical dreams 
 Of the ancients. where are they now f 
 
 B
 
 But here is fair Vecta* with, beauty now teeming, 
 
 No offspring of fantasy's brain ! 
 "Behold her, through smiles of beneficence beaming, 
 
 No fairy 's — but Nature' 3 domain I 
 
 Her forests are vocal, her woods are sweet bowers, 
 Her hillocks with verdure are crowned ; 
 
 Her streams are clear crystal, and fragrant the flowers, 
 "Which through her green meadows abound. 
 
 Tes ! such is my Isle — sweetest spot in creation, 
 I'll boast of thy beauty where'er I may roam : 
 
 "With gladness I offer this simple oblation, 
 
 Dear scene of my childhood — my Island — my home ! 
 
 MY OWN NATIVE ISLE. 
 
 (An early Poem.} 
 
 " A precious gem, set in the silver sea." — Shakspeare, 
 
 "When casting my eyes o'er the map of the world, 
 I gaze at the countries before me unfurled, 
 
 "With many a tear and a smile ; 
 I weep for those nations where cruelties reign, 
 But soon the sensations of pleasure regain, 
 
 WTien I look at my own native Isle. 
 
 * Vecta, or Vectis, was the name given to the Island by the Romans, signifying 
 a bar or bolt, JBKpressive of the steep and projecting rocks, 'with which the coast 
 is, for the most part, defended. Some have derived the name from a Greek word 
 that denotes a fish, from its form.
 
 Yes ! cruelty reigns among many a clan, 
 "Who worship as God the devices of man, 
 
 "With homage debasing and vile : 
 But here, the sweet light of the gospel's truths shine, 
 Exchanging such follies for service divine, 
 
 How blessed is my own native Isle ! 
 
 Though day after day, I my calling pursue, — 
 Though my moments of sweet relaxation are few, 
 
 I care not for labour and toil ; 
 I can roam through the field when my day's work is done, 
 And view, from the hills, the last rays of the sun, 
 
 As he sinks 'neath my own native Isle. 
 
 Sometimes from its borders far distant I roam ; 
 Tet still my affections are centred at home, — 
 
 They are fixed on its joys all the while ; 
 'Tis this the bright pleasure of hope — ever strong — 
 Implants in my bosom, and calls forth the song, — 
 
 " I shall soon see my own native Isle !" 
 
 'Tis the " Garden of England" by many confessed — 
 The " Gem of the Ocean," with beauty impressed — 
 
 On it Nature has lavished her smile ; 
 Its surface presents such diversified views, 
 Of hills, and sweet vales, and of countless bright hues, 
 
 That I boast of my own native Isle ! 
 
 Its climate is healthy, salubrious, and mild ; 
 Its scenery lovely, romantic, and wild ; 
 "Well decked is its picturesque soil ;
 
 4 
 
 It abounds with, sweet fountains, perennial and clear, 
 Whose rivulets roam through the fields far and near, 
 And well water my own native Isle. 
 
 Its Castle, — proud relic of ages gone by, 
 The Islander's pride, and the visitor's joy — 
 
 Historic and time-honoured pile ! 
 Is now, though in ruins, a beautiful place, 
 Bestowing an interest — adding a grace, 
 
 To the heart of my own native Isle. 
 
 Its Landslips — where rugged magnificence reigns, 
 Where Nature its pristine appearance retains, 
 
 Which Art has not ventured to spoil ; 
 Resound with the music of choristers gay, — 
 The linnet's sweet song, and the bullfinch's lay ; 
 
 Sweet spots ! in my own native Isle. 
 
 Its Chines excite warm admiration and praise, 
 And fill the beholder with joyful amaze, 
 
 As he roams 'mid their beauties awhile ; 
 Delighted he stands at a distance to see, 
 The waterfalls tracing their course to the sea 
 
 Which encircles my own native Isle. 
 
 Then behold how the Cliffs wildly rise from the strand- 
 ilajestic, abrupt, and terrific and grand ! 
 
 'Neath which the waves bellow and boil ! 
 But some with a sweetness and loveliness beam, 
 And with countless bright colours commingling gleam, 
 
 In the west of my own native Isle.
 

 
 It can boast of fine mansions, dear spots of retreat ! 
 For those who are titled the "noble and great;"* 
 
 Even Majesty dwells here awhile : 
 Nor less can it boast of its villagers' cots, 
 Clad with ivy, environed with sweet flower knots, 
 
 Ornamenting my own native Isle. 
 
 But in vain all its beauties I strive to portray, 
 No language to strangers one half can convey, 
 
 Unless they will view it awhile ; 
 To all, then, who wish these delights to enjoy, 
 "Which never will satiate, never will cloy — 
 
 " Come, visit my own native Isle !" 
 
 CAKISBBOOKE BELLS. 
 
 ( Written on the Keep of Carisbrooke Castle. J 
 
 ' Dear bells ! how Bweet the sound of village bells. 
 When on the undulating- ear they swim V'—Eood. 
 
 How beautiful that peal of bells 
 
 Doth sound, upon this ancient mound ; 
 
 So sweetly floating o'er the dells, 
 Suffusing gladness all around. 
 
 • "At Faringford House, Freshwater, resides Alfred Tennyson. Futuie 
 Historians of the fair Isle of Wight will, doubtless, be proud to eurol his name in 
 the catalogue of Worthies ; and in years to come, admiring men will lead their 
 children by the hand to show them the spot where lived, thought, and wrote the 
 poet of Locksley Hall, of The Princess, and of that indignant denunciation of the 
 littleness of an age, Maud. Aye, to all time, will the Isle be proud of Alfred Tenny- 
 son, and pilgrims speed to Faringford as to a holy shrine."— Adams' " Garden Isle."
 
 6 
 
 I love those bells — my youth they cheered, 
 
 As oft, retired, in yonder nook, 
 I listened to their sounds endeared — 
 
 Sweet merry peal of Carisbrooke ! 
 
 E'en when in childhood's tender age 
 
 My ears were wont to catch their sound ; 
 Nought could my infant heart engage, 
 
 By their sweet undulations bound. 
 Like to the tale of Eastern climes, 
 
 Where reptiles yield to music's power, 
 My soul was charmed by those sweet chimes, 
 
 Emitted from yon ancient tower. 
 
 Nor only mine : I oft have known 
 
 That hoary age has listening stood, 
 Recalling scenes long pass'd and gone — 
 
 The happy days of bright childhood ! 
 0, there is beauty in those sounds, 
 
 "Which thrill through every conscious part ; 
 A magic power in them abounds 
 
 To captivate the human heart. 
 
 How many scenes, sweet village bells, 
 
 Tour solace feel, your call obey — 
 Births, marriages, and funerals, 
 
 And rural feast, and holiday ; 
 All notice claim — all own your power — 
 
 To soothe in pain — to heighten joy ; 
 And, meeting thus each fond desire, 
 
 Your music ever peals on high.
 
 Chime, bells of Carisbrooke, chime on ! 
 
 Your silvery tones with pride I hear; 
 No other peal I e'er have known 
 
 Has fallen so sweetly on my ear. 
 Chime on ! and make these walls and slopes 
 
 Resound with joy in every nook; 
 To lighten sorrow — brighten hopes — 
 
 Chime on, sweet bells of Carisbrooke ! 
 
 PAN DOWN,* NEAK NEWPOKT. 
 
 "A gaily-chequer'd, heart expanding view, 
 Far as the circling eye can shoot around." 
 
 O'er the rural hamlet rising, 
 
 Robed in nature's verdant sod, 
 Stands the Down once consecrated 
 
 To the shepherds' fabled god ; 
 Here, with adulations lauded, 
 
 Sat enthroned the jovial Pan; 
 Here, glad strains, with acclamations, 
 
 Through the shouts of shepherds ran. 
 
 Still its ancient name remaineth, 
 Though its heathen rites are fled ; 
 
 * The name of this eminence is probably of Soman origin, and was given in 
 honour of Pan, the god of shepherds.
 
 Still the flocks by merry shepherds 
 To its pastures green are led ; 
 
 Children still its steeps ascending ; 
 Fill the air with mirth and glee ; 
 
 And still happy feathered songsters 
 "Warble forth their melody. 
 
 Such a spot might well be chosen 
 
 By the votaries of Pan : 
 Pastoral scenes here lie before you 
 
 Such as zephyrs seldom fan ; — 
 Distant hills and dales and vallies, 
 
 "Woods and streams and upland lawns ; 
 Scenes of sunshine, shade and beauty, — 
 
 Loveliness which ever dawns. 
 
 May thy flocks still graze in quiet ; 
 
 And thy slopes be ever green ; 
 On thy loved steep summit climbing, 
 
 Still may happy groups be seen ; — 
 From thy brow may golden plenty, 
 
 Waving, gladden human eyes ; 
 And may worship, purer, nobler, 
 
 From thy furzy height arise !
 
 9 
 
 THE ABBEY OF QUAEK.* 
 
 " Whose mouldering Abbey walls o'erhang the glade 
 And oaks coeval spread a mournful shade." 
 
 The moonbeams were dancing on upland and lea, 
 And illuming the wavelets which stirred the blue sea ; 
 The nightingale caroled her beautiful lay ; 
 And the owl fluttered by me in search of its prey ; 
 And the bark of the mastiff was heard from afar, 
 As I sat 'neath the oak at the ruins of Quarr. 
 
 So still was the evening, so sweet was the scene — 
 So cool and refreshing, so peaceful, serene — 
 That my spirit was spell-bound, my body enchained, 
 And in that spot so lonely, entranced I remained, 
 Delightfully watching the evening's bright star. 
 That gilded the ivy-clad ruins of Quarr. 
 
 Soon visions stole o'er me; the past re-appeared — 
 E'en the era in which the famed Abbey was reared; 
 In its pristine appearance before me it stood, 
 Upraised in the midst of the deep tangled wood ; 
 Shut out from the world — its commotions and war, 
 Peace only was known at the Abbey of Quarr. 
 
 * Founded in the year 1132 by Baldwin de Redvers, Earl of Devon and Lord of 
 the Isle. The site originally contained upwards of thirty acres of ground. It was 
 largely endowed, and its chapel wa3 the resting place of numerous illustrious 
 personages. After its dissolution, it was purchased by Mr. O. Mills, a merchant ol 
 Southampton, and by him destroyed for the sake of its materials! It is now in 
 p ossession of the Fleming family..
 
 10 
 
 I heard the sweet chants as sublimely they rose, 
 And the chimes which enlivened the general repose ; 
 The matins which swelled at the dawn of the day, 
 And the vespers when evening was dying away ; 
 Whose soft-flowing cadence the woodlands from far 
 In echoes gave back to the Abbey of (Juarr. 
 
 I saw the procession whose train would emerge, 
 In solemn tones chanting the funeral dirge ; 
 The pride and the grandeur, and pompous array, 
 Which as tributes to greatness the inmates would pay, 
 When prelates and warriors were brought from afar, 
 To rest in their graves in the Abbey of Quarr. 
 
 But soon o'er my vision came lovelier scenes, 
 
 Such as oft lure our senses when wrapt in sweet dreams ; 
 
 I 6aw the young bride in her bridal array, 
 
 And beside her the bridegroom — young, noble and gay ; 
 
 When wealth, rank, and beauty, had come from afar, 
 
 To witness their vows at the altar of Quarr. 
 
 Returning crusaders, and mendicants, too, 
 
 As they came to the Abbey doors, passed in my view ; 
 
 All welcomed within with a place at the board, 
 
 And blessed, when they left, "in the name of the Lord;" 
 
 Those doors an admission would never debar, 
 
 For sweet charity reigned at the Abbey of Quarr. 
 
 Dear Abbey ! thy walls scarcely now can be traced, 
 Each relic and vestige are well nigh effaced ;
 
 11 
 
 Not mouldered by time's wasting ages away, 
 But to folly and unabashed avarice a prey ; 
 Time would but have left on thy structure a scar, 
 But avarice has wrecked thee — sweet Abbey of Quarr ! 
 
 BEADING CEMETEEY. 
 
 Forgive, blest shades, the tributary tear."— Steele. 
 
 Often have my footsteps, mourning, 
 
 Brought me to this place ; 
 Now its shaded walks, returning, 
 I again retrace. 
 
 Welcome is its pensive sadness, 
 Modulating nature's gladness, 
 Mirth were here but folly — madness. 
 
 Loved ones lie around me, gathered 
 
 To the darksome tomb ; 
 From congenial spirits severed, 
 In their youthful bloom. 
 
 Precious relics here are sleeping, 
 Angels o'er their vigils keeping, 
 Cease, bereaved ones, cease your weeping ! 
 
 Yet it is alone, beneath me 
 
 Death and darkness reign ; 
 All above is life and beauty — 
 
 Nature's joys obtain :
 
 12 
 
 Happy choristers are singing ; 
 Sweetest flowers around are springing- 
 Fragrance on the breezes flinging. 
 
 Pleased, I scan thy fond inscriptions, 
 
 As I onward move — 
 Faith, and hopes, and benedictions, 
 F/tterances of love : 
 
 Some the sleeper's virtues telling- 
 Some in holy triumphs swelling — 
 Some on love almighty dwelling. 
 
 Precious spot ! I fain would linger — 
 
 Here I fain would stay ; 
 For, with a prophetic finger, 
 Thou dost point the way 
 
 To a scene, all bright and glorious, 
 Where our loved ones, gone before us, 
 Eeign, immortal and victorious ! 
 
 MAEVEL COPSE,* NEAE JSTEWPOKT. 
 
 " Hail ! verdant fields, and shady bowers, 
 Wherein I've passed so many happy hours !" — Hemans. 
 
 Retired from the busy world of tumult and of strife, 
 Of old a band of men devout here sought monastic life ; 
 
 • A college of priests was here founded by Henry de Blois, Bishop of Winches- 
 ter, and afterwards augmented by Peter de Roch and Henry Woodlock, his 
 successor.
 
 13 
 
 "Within thy tangled woods' recess their monastery lay, 
 "Where wrapped in meditation deep they passed their years away. 
 
 The matin bell then sounded forth to greet the uprising sun; 
 And vesper peal with hallowed call, when Sol his course had run ; 
 Deep solitude and quiet, then, had here unbounded sway, 
 Unbroken but by chajmts and bells, and feathered songsters' lay. 
 
 But soon the ruthless spoiler came, and ruin spread around, 
 And now we search for mouldering cells, but not a trace is found ; 
 The scene is altered — fruitful fields and flowery meads are seen, 
 And but a little copse remains to tell what once has been. 
 
 Yet still thy shelter grateful is in sultry summer days, 
 And pleasant are thy rural walks, and flower-bespangled ways; 
 I pace them now, as once I did, and muse on days long spent, 
 When then a boy I used to roam in thoughtless merriment. 
 
 And many a nest of feathered tribe, upon thy branches reared, 
 With hand too ruthless have I borne, nor eggs nor nestlings spared, 
 E'en when upon the topmost bough, it chanced to meet my eyes; 
 No fear of fall or broken limbs could keep me from the prize. 
 
 The berries, too, which in thy shrubs of smallest growth are found : 
 The hazel nuts, and plums, with which thy hedges so abound, 
 Have often lured my youthful steps in autumn's ripening hours; 
 Long days were spent in plucking them, beneath thy shady bowers. 
 
 But youth is gone, the sober years of manhood now are come ; 
 And now I love with other thoughts thy sheltered walks to roam ; 
 The works of man may pall the sense, and weary oft the eye, 
 Sweet Nature's charms, though changing oft, cannever, neverdie!
 
 14 
 
 MY ISLAND HOME. 
 
 " Bomantic Isle ! 
 The pearl of Ocean, girdled in its foaic !" 
 
 I have heard and read of palaces, 
 
 Magnificent and grand ; 
 Of some great master's art and skill, 
 
 Proud monuments they stand : 
 But ah ! I love my Island home 
 
 "Which Providence has given ; 
 No place to thought so sweet heside — 
 
 I'd only change for heaven. 
 
 I have heard and read of glittering strands, 
 
 For wealth exhaustless famed, 
 "Where silver, gold, and precious stones, 
 
 Are easily obtained ; 
 But ah ! I love my Island home, 
 
 Nor hence would I be driven ; 
 No place to thought so sweet beside — 
 
 I'd only change for heaven. 
 
 I have read reports from other lands, 
 
 "Which seem like fairy tales ; 
 Unceasing summer — gorgeous sighti 
 
 Luxuriant hills and vales; 
 But ah ! I love my Island home, 
 
 "Where life to me was given ; 
 No place to thought so sweet beside 
 
 I'd only change for heaven.
 
 15 
 
 Its joys are more than heart can wish, 
 
 And more than tongue can say ; 
 Its glories are unceasing, too, — 
 
 And never fade away ; 
 There ceaseless songs, of sweetest praise, 
 
 For pardoning grace are given ; 
 Though much I love my Island home, 
 
 I'd gladly change for heaven ! 
 
 OSBOENE* 
 
 The beautiful marine residence af Ser Majesty the Queen. 
 
 " Oh ! dearest Osborne, sweet secluded spot; 
 * * * * A lovely scene 
 
 Of ever-smiling happiness disclose, 
 Where royalty might taste a sweet repose." 
 
 Uprising in the sea-girt Isle, bedecked with verdure round, 
 Sweet Osborne ! is thy palace-pile, with every beauty crowned ; 
 Erected for Victoria, and for Her pleasure planned, 
 Her favorite residence who sways, the sceptre of the land. 
 
 The Solent, as it onward flows in graceful majesty, 
 In music, deep and wild, presents its harmony to thee; 
 While with its waters, clear and blue, it laves thy shingle strand, 
 And oft reflects Her form who sways, the sceptre of the land. 
 
 * The foundation stone of the new Palace was laid by Her Most Gracious 
 Majesty on the 2.'ird of June, 1845. It was built by the late celebrated T. Cubitt, 
 Esq., from designs by H.K.II. the Prince Consort, whose admirable taste and 
 extensive knowledge of the fine arts are conspicuously displayed in every part of 
 the building.
 
 16 
 
 Beheld from thee, the distant shore in varied hue appears ; 
 The rising hill, the landscape fair, a smiling aspect wears ; 
 There, too, far frowning batteries, by skill and courage manned, 
 Await the will of Her who sways, the sceptre of the land. 
 
 And, Osborne, round thy precincts fair, how ravishing the scene, 
 How fertile here, how lovely there, — how beautiful, serene ! 
 Nature combined with Art, and all that wealth can e'er command, 
 Render thee meet for Her who sways, the sceptre of the land. 
 
 But, best of all, maternal love, her sweet domestic reign, 
 Illustrious in thy palace-wails, our sympathies obtain ; 
 No pageants bare, nor state control — but here the Eoyal band 
 A mother views in Her who sway s the sceptre of the land. 
 
 Long may Her standard wave aloft from thy majestic tower ! 
 May peace within thy walls abide, and love exert its power ! 
 And 0, when life shall wane away, may She a saved-one stand, 
 And heaven be Hers who sways, while here, the sceptre of the 
 land! 
 
 THE EIVEE MEDINA. 
 
 " See, Medina there, 
 Expands her silvery bosom to the sea, 
 As eager for the gifts which commerce brings 
 From distant climes, to pour them o'er her Isle." 
 
 Rising at St. Catherine's, 
 Through the meads it gently winds ; 
 Yielding freshness in its course ; 
 Marked by verdure from its source;
 
 17 
 
 On its banks the willow grows, 
 And the yellow cowslip blows — 
 Here, by sturdy trees o'ershaded: 
 There, by horse and oxen waded. 
 
 Gently thus it onward flows, 
 Till a larger stream it grows ; 
 Where the angler, for his prey, 
 Watches all the sultry day : 
 Favoured oft by sport and spoil, 
 For his patience, and his toil ; 
 
 Thus, our own Medina river 
 
 Is a bounteous pleasure giver. 
 
 Further down the gurgling rill, 
 Stands the whitened village mill : 
 There its waters turn the wheel, 
 Or between the hatch-ways steal : 
 Further still, by mill-dam bound, 
 Other wheels it turneth round ; 
 
 Useful thus, as onward flowing, 
 
 Help to all alike bestowing. 
 
 Now it reacheth Newport Quay, 
 Met by wavelets from the sea ; 
 Mingled here with Lukeh/s stream, 
 On its ample bosom teem 
 Boats for pleasure and for trade, 
 All that handicraft hath made— 
 Up and down for ever going, 
 Sailing, scudding, drifting, rowing.
 
 18 
 
 On it flows, expanding still, 
 Passing the Medina Mill, 
 And the Folly in its course, 
 Flowing with augmented force, 
 'Till its rolling tides carouse 
 In the merry port of Cowes ; 
 
 There it feeds the Solent Sea, 
 
 Polling on continually. 
 
 Pass we thus our life away, 
 Tear by year, and day by day ; 
 Hasting to the boundless sea 
 Of a blest eternity ? 
 Through each scene of varying hue, 
 Are we thus to duty true ? 
 Press we to that sinless shore, 
 "Where earth's shifting tides are o'er? 
 
 MOUNT JOY * NEAK KEWPOKT. 
 
 " From this specular mount 
 The poet's and the painter's eye can rove, 
 Delig-hted still, o'er the sweet interchange 
 Of hill and vale, deep groves, and upland lawns."— Atkins. 
 
 Enchanting height, commanding 
 
 Unrivalled scenery, 
 On every side expanding, 
 
 In wild variety : 
 
 » Mount Joy, is probably a corruption of Mons Jovis, the name given to this 
 eminence by the Romans.
 
 19 
 
 I oft have paced thy summit, 
 "When, as a gladsome boy, 
 
 I revelled in thy beauties, 
 Magnificent, Mount Joy ! 
 
 E'en now in fancied leisure, 
 
 I tread thy height again ; 
 And view from thee with pleasure, 
 
 The fields of golden grain — 
 The thickly-mantled forest — 
 
 The distant deep blue sea — 
 The cliffs which guard our Island 
 
 From every enemy. 
 
 There, too, in sunlight gleaming, 
 
 Rise yonder Royal Towers, 
 With England's Standard streaming 
 
 O'er Osborne's rural bowers. 
 Meandering streams, beneath me, 
 
 Wind gently to the river, 
 Which meets the briny Solent, 
 
 Lost in its tides for ever. 
 
 The cot, the mansion, hamlet, 
 
 The Island's capital — 
 The fastnesses of Carisbrooke 
 
 Our Island citadel ; 
 The farmstead, heath, and woodland, 
 
 And meads of verdant green, 
 All here before me lying, 
 
 Eorm one delightful scene.
 
 20 
 
 Sweet spot ! but once polluted 
 
 With heathen sacrifice ; 
 For here the Roman worshiped 
 
 His fabled deities ; 
 Here Jove, with blood placated, 
 
 Was sacredly enthroned, 
 And, Lord of all created, 
 
 Was reverently owned. 
 
 But " Mount of Jove " no longer, 
 
 We hail thee " Mount of Joy.' 
 Long may thy height of verdure 
 
 Our happy hours employ; 
 And while we view the beauties 
 
 Thy long-trod paths unfold, 
 May thanks arise, we own not 
 
 Those heathen rites of old ! 
 
 NUNWELL, 
 
 The seat of Sir Henry Oylander* Bart. 
 
 "Eastward by villas, and through shady lanes 
 To liumceU's ancient groves." 
 
 Embosom'd in luxuriant trees, 
 Fanned by the fresh and fragrant breeze, 
 Old Nunwell's mansion stands ; 
 
 • The Oglanders are among the oldest and most distinguished families in the 
 lslawd. Their ancestor Richard de Okelander, a native of Caen, came to England 
 with the Conqueror, and, for his bravery in the battle field, was presented, by 
 William Fitz OBborne, with the fair lands of Brading and Xunwell.
 
 21 
 
 On either side the raptured eye 
 Is charmed by rural scenery, 
 And loveliest glades commands. 
 
 Proud forest oaks still skirt its ways, 
 Remnants of long departed days, 
 
 Leading the mind away 
 To times of yore, when warfare raged, 
 And deadly strife was madly waged, 
 
 Till "William won the day. 
 
 Then from the conflict, crowned with fame 
 The valorous knight, Oglander, came 
 
 And settled in the Isle ; 
 And these broad lands to him were given, 
 For long and bravely had he striven 
 
 To win the Conqtjebok's spoil. 
 
 And thence, till now, the ennobled race 
 It3 ancient pedigree can trace, 
 
 In one unbroken line ; 
 And still on NunweWs honoured plains 
 The ancestral residence remains, 
 
 And hearts around it twine. 
 
 And well they may : for such a spot, 
 But seldom is the happy lot 
 
 Of man to call his own : 
 And well may Vecta make her boast 
 Such woodland scene within her coast 
 
 As Nunwell Park is known !
 
 22 
 
 THE DBOPPING KOCK, 
 
 On St. George's Down. 
 
 " Nature, throwing 1 aside 
 Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile 
 The Author of her beauties, who, retired 
 Behind His own creation, works unseen." — Cowper. 
 
 Dropping, and dropping, through fern and through heather, 
 
 E'en in the summer noon's sultriest weather ; 
 
 Still the hard rock is its water bestowing, 
 
 Where the rank weeds germ, and the rushes are growing. 
 
 Gently and evenly falls the clear shower, 
 The work of a mighty, invisible power ; 
 Streaming not, running not — dropping alone, 
 Through the centuries past, and the long ages flown. 
 
 It is as though Nature were shedding a tear, 
 Of sorrow o'er waste and o'er barrenness near ; 
 For Ceres has spread not her stores on its breast 
 "With wild shrubs alone are its environs dresl. 
 
 Like HoreVs famed Rock, which to Israel of old, 
 Its volume of water through desert lands rolled ; 
 The rock of St. George's its moisture supplies, 
 Where a rude sterile landscape alone meets the eyes. 
 
 In the rambles of childhood I hither would stray, 
 
 To list in its shade to the thrushes' sweet lay ; 
 
 And to view the loved songsters with gladsome wing haste, 
 
 In fancied seclusion, its waters to taste.
 
 23 
 
 Still give of thy freshness, sweet Roclc of the Down 
 "Which ere long, peradventure, rich plenty may crown ; 
 "When thy drops shall be prized as the dew of the morn, 
 And thy rushes give place to the ripe golden corn. 
 
 DEADMAN'S LANE, 
 
 Near Newport. 
 
 " These fought for spoil 
 And those in self-defence." — Coicper. 
 
 Nay ! start not at that gloomy name, 
 No spectral shades are there ; 
 
 Not now it is a darksome place, 
 "Where bloody scenes once were. 
 
 The name in troubled times was given 
 
 A name of triumph then ; 
 To mark the scene of battles rage — 
 
 Of Gallia's slaughtered men. 
 
 For there the sanguinary light 
 
 Raged fiercely all around ; 
 'Twas there the cry of anguish rose — 
 
 A sickening — harrowing sound ! 
 
 Ah, yes ! our lovely Isle has known 
 War's fearful curse and bane, —
 
 24 
 
 Has known the poverty and -woe 
 "Which follow in its train ! 
 
 How many deeds of mercy's hand, — 
 Deeds great, and good, and kind, 
 
 No glad tradition stores for us 
 Nor leaves one trace behind. 
 
 Yet men delight to mark the spot, 
 Where fellow men were slain ; 
 
 And hence tradition will hand down 
 The name of " Deadman's Zane." 
 
 APPIJLDUBCOMBE, 
 
 (Late the property of the Right Son. the Earl of Yarhorough.) 
 
 ' Time was, and that not long- ago, 
 This Hall was not deserted so." 
 
 ilansion of the ancient "Worsley's, 
 
 Proudly raised in Vecta's Isle ; 
 Once the boast of those who owned thee, 
 
 Now a sad neglected pile : 
 Famed for beauty — famed for plenty, 
 
 Festive seasons thou hast known ; 
 But the joyous laugh is silenced, 
 
 And thy princely splendour gone.
 
 25 
 
 Herds of deer once ranged the pastures 
 
 Of thy slopes — thy sweet domain ; 
 Boaming midst thy rural beauties — 
 
 Monarchs of the hill and plain ; 
 Taste and elegance united, 
 
 Caught the glance at every view — 
 Art with nature sweetly blending, 
 
 Made thee loved and honoured, too. 
 
 And within thy halls, what wonders 
 
 'Tranced the eager, curious eye ; — 
 Noble columns, sculpture, paintings, 
 
 Gems from Greece and Italy : 
 All combined to draw the stranger, 
 
 And extend thy worthy fame ; 
 But the charm is rudely broken ; 
 
 Nought remaineth but thy name. 
 
 Mansion of the ancient "Worsley's, 
 
 Who shall renovate thy pile ?* 
 "Who, with pride, will reinstate thee ■ 
 
 As the boast of Vecta's Isle ? — 
 Failing this, though still neglected, 
 
 "What thou wast we love to tell ; 
 Famed for beauty — famed for plenty, 
 
 "Worsley's mansion, fare thee well ! 
 
 • While these pages are going through the press a company is being formed for 
 the purpose of litting up this splendid building as an Hotel, with every thing to 
 promise, and to justify, success.
 
 26 
 
 MY NATIVE ISLE. 
 
 " Others in sweeter verse may sing' thy praise 
 But none with admiration of thy charms 
 More stedfast, more sincere." 
 
 The hills of my Island, I climb them with joy 
 
 To inhale the clear fresh bracing air ; 
 And to view the broad landscape, which, far as the eye 
 
 Can discern it, is lovely and fair. 
 
 The groves of my Island are vocal with praise, 
 
 There nestle the linnet and thrush ; 
 In the night they are plaintive with Philomel's lays, 
 
 Which echo from brake and from bush. 
 
 The fields of my Island, how fruitful are they ! 
 
 Here, waving with ripe golden corn ; 
 There, covered with hillocks of sweet scented hay, 
 
 "Which perfume the dewed breath of the morn. 
 
 The streams of my Island run glancing along, 
 Through meadow, and woodland, and vale ; 
 
 How soothing the sound of their undying song, 
 As it floats on the wings of the gale. 
 
 The cliffs of my Island, they peer to the sky, 
 
 Defying the ocean's wild fray; 
 Here, radiant with hues which the rainbow outvie, 
 
 There, white as the ocean's light spray. 
 
 The chines of my Island, what charms they combine ! 
 What differing features they wear ;
 
 27 
 
 Here, sheltering creepers with evergreens 'twine, 
 There, magnificent, rugged, and bare. 
 
 The rocks of my Island in rich fretwork stand, 
 Sure bulwarks from battle's alarm ; 
 
 Like sentinels guarding the heart of the land, 
 Protecting her children from harm. 
 
 The homes of my Island, on hills and in dells, 
 
 Human life from its sorrows beguile ; 
 And the proud halls of Osborne, where royalty dwells, 
 
 Are made glad with a Mothee's fond smile ! 
 
 Dear Island ! I fain would a garland prepare, 
 All thine own the bright flowerets shall be ; 
 
 Culled fresh from thy beauty and loveliness rare — 
 And in love I present it to thee ! 
 
 CAKISBEOOKE CASTLE. 
 
 " Time hallows what he leaves, 
 And does to us endear memorials to the end." 
 
 Thy time worn pile, proud Castle, 
 
 I venerate and love ; 
 And on thy pleasant ramparts, 
 
 My steps delight to rove ;
 
 28 
 
 My young affections gathered 
 
 Around each ivy wall ; 
 Which often now to memory 
 
 My childhood's days recall. 
 
 And on thy slopes, proud Castle, 
 When life was in its spring, 
 
 How often did I wander, 
 A light and joyous thing; 
 
 'Twas sunshine all, and gladness- 
 Sweet flowerets round me grew ; 
 
 And Hope, with bright illusions, 
 Her mantle o'er me threw. 
 
 Thy steeps I oft would clamber, 
 
 To find the linnet's nest; 
 And down thy trenches ramble 
 
 Of " lee orchis "* in quest : 
 And many a summer's evening 
 
 The vesper star could spy, 
 Ere to my lowly dwelling 
 
 I wearily would hie. 
 
 * "This plant is well known to the admirers of botany by the title of "bee 
 orchis." It flowers in June and July. So striking is the general resemblance which 
 the flowers, when viewed at a little distance, bear to an insect, as to have uniformly 
 impressed all observers with the same idea; and may almost justify the application 
 of the epigrammatic description : 
 
 Nature in doubt a beauteous flower 
 
 Or insect to disclose, 
 At length beneath her forming power 
 
 They both in union rose."— Shaw.
 
 29 
 
 And many a gladsome fete day, 
 
 "Within thy gates I spent, 
 Invited there to honour 
 
 Some national event ; 
 There, too, I watch' d the arrows 
 
 From bows of strong and fair, 
 Off to the distant target, 
 
 Fly hissing through the air. 
 
 Then with what awe I pondered 
 
 Before the window high, 
 Through which the Eoyal Prisoner, 
 
 Made efforts vain to fly ; 
 While one, more learned, recounted 
 
 The interesting story, 
 Till Charles himself I witnessed 
 
 In kingly grief before me. 
 
 Ah, yes, fond memory lingers 
 
 About each hoary wall, — 
 And Keep, and "Well, and Turret, 
 
 Some happy thoughts recall ; 
 Relic of by-gone ages ! 
 
 Beloved — revered by me ; 
 I live again in boyhood 
 
 "Whene'er I think of thee !
 
 30 
 
 THE YALE OF ARRETON. 
 
 " When first I gaz'd 
 XTpon the lovely Vale in summer's pride 
 Outstretch'd so far, I hail'd it as the seat 
 Of peace and happiness."— -4.<£»ns. 
 
 Peaceful vale of Arreton ! 
 
 Picture of repose ; 
 "Where before each cottage 
 
 Blooms the lovely rose : 
 Far from busy commerce, 
 
 "With its ceaseless din ; 
 By the hills surrounding, 
 
 Quietly shut in. 
 
 Fruitful vale of Arreton ! 
 
 Plenty smiles on thee ; 
 Crops in rich profusion 
 
 All around we see : 
 And each cottage garden, 
 
 Where no hirelings toil, 
 Tells, by its abundance, 
 
 Of tby fruitful soil. 
 
 Lovely vale of Arreton ! 
 
 Clad in bright array — 
 Smiling in thy beauty 
 
 Through the summer's day 
 Sweetest flowers adorn thee, 
 
 And upon each gale, 
 Float their fragrant odours — 
 
 Peaceful, lovely Vale !
 
 31 
 
 THE BEACON, ON FBESHWATER DOWN. 
 
 " Sleep, ambition ! rage expire ! 
 Vengeance ! fold thy wing of fire ! 
 Close thy dark and lurid eye ! 
 Bid thy torch, forsaken, die." — Hcmans. 
 
 No need for the Beacon light's beams, 
 
 Now the olive branch waveth on high ; 
 No need for its lurid light gleams, 
 
 At midnight illuming the sky : 
 It once was a heart-thrilling sight, — 
 
 It told of the enemy near ; 
 And seen in the dead of the night, 
 
 Awakened the Islander's fear. 
 
 Yet there doth the Beacon still stand, 
 
 On the down's topmost summit descried ; 
 Overlooking the rocks on the strand, 
 
 And the ocean which rolls in its pride : 
 The glares of its fire now cease — 
 
 No light from it beameth afar; 
 It as loudly now telleth of peace 
 
 As once it resounded of war. 
 
 And far may the day distant be 
 
 Ere the light shall again from it gleam ; 
 Ere to Hurst, o'er the Solent's salt sea, 
 
 The blaze shall responsively stream :
 
 32 
 
 "War's horrors and wastes we deplore, 
 And weep o'er the harrowing scene ; 
 
 Nor love we the cannon's loud roar, 
 Unless when it welcomes our Queen ! 
 
 EABEWELL TO OLD ST. THOMAS'S.* 
 
 The Parish Church of Newport. 
 
 " Time hallows what he leaves, 
 
 And does to us endear memorials to the end." 
 
 Ere the hand of stern destruction 
 
 Lays thy fabric in the dust ; 
 Ere thy picture fades before us, 
 
 As the mandate saith, it must : 
 Let me — for the hour approacheth — 
 
 Let me give a last farewell ; 
 Let me breathe it fondly o'er thee, 
 
 Ancient building, loved so well ! 
 
 • " The last services were conducted in the old building on Sunday, July 16th, 
 1854, by the Kevds. E. D. Scott, M.A., late vicar of Carisbrooke, and G. H. Connor, 
 M.A., now vicar of Newport. All Newport," continues the historian, " and nu- 
 merous visitors from other parts of the Island, thronged together to take solemn 
 leave of a structure which the fondest associations through many generations had 
 endeared to them. Then it was pulled down; and in a month afterwards, on the 
 24th of August, the first stone of its more ambitious and comely successor was laid 
 by His Eoyal Highness, the Prince Consort."— Beat's '• Church of St. Thomas."
 
 33 
 
 Turn we to the long pass'd epoch* 
 
 "When thy massive walls arose ; 
 Time has swept his pinions o'er thee — 
 
 Those who framed thee all repose ; 
 They are gone ! And now their labours 
 
 To destruction hourly tend ; 
 "Walls, and pinnacles, and tower, 
 
 The destroying hand shall rend. 
 
 And, uprising from thy ruins, 
 
 Soon a structure we shall see ; 
 More magnificent, but never 
 
 Linked to fondest memory ! 
 And, when from thy new-built steeple, 
 
 Thine own merry bells shall peal, 
 Greeting their sweet sounds familiar, 
 
 Thoughts of thee will o'er us steal. 
 
 But, mementos of thy glory 
 
 In its stately walls shall be ; 
 There preserved hand down the story 
 
 Of the valourous knight, Horsey ;\ 
 Of Elizabeth, fair princess ! 
 
 Daughter of the martyr'd King ; 
 Who, immured in yonder fortress, 
 
 Faded, like a flower in spring. % 
 
 * It was built in the reign of Henry II., shortly after the canonization of 
 Thomas a Becket, and dedicated to him. 
 
 + Sir Edward Horsey was Governor of the Island in the reign of Elizabeth. An 
 extremely fine specimen of medieval sculpture, in alabaster, perpetuates his fame. 
 Sir Edward died and was buried at Newport in the year 1582. 
 
 t See Poem, " The Captive Freed." For page refer to Index.
 
 34 
 
 Pare-thee-well, devoted building, 
 
 Storms no more will thee assail ! 
 "With thy ancient walls and turrets, 
 
 Passes many a childhood's tale : 
 Fare-thee-well, e'en now dismantled, 
 
 Disappearing from our view ! 
 Fare-thee-well, rude hands are on thee- 
 
 Old St. Thomas's, adieu ! 
 
 THE PULPIT KOCK, UNDEKCLIFR 
 
 " Sweet is this sunny height, to which my steps 
 Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roam'd 
 Unheeding where — so lovely, all around, 
 The works of God, array'd in vernal smile!" 
 
 The Pulpit Rock ! The Pulpit Rock! 
 
 It is mounted up on high, 
 Where the winged choir in numbers flock, 
 And trill sweet harmony : 
 
 And the ivy green 
 
 Is clambering seen, 
 Up its sides, time worn, and hoary ; 
 
 As there it stands, 
 
 Where the zephyr fans 
 A rock in its native glory ! 
 
 It preaches a sermon to man below, 
 Which all may hear who will listen ;
 
 35 
 
 Its eloquence causeth the heart to glow, 
 And the upraised eye to glisten ! 
 
 And it preaches on, 
 
 "While the seasons run — 
 Bright summer, and winter hoary — 
 
 As in rugged mien, 
 
 It is towering seen, 
 A rock in its native glory ! 
 
 Its beetling height I have often climbed, 
 
 And, 0, what a scene it presented ! 
 Beyond what has entered a poet's mind, 
 Or the painter's skill invented — 
 A landscape fair, 
 Is unfolded there, 
 And the Ocean has muttered its story ; 
 While there I have been, 
 Surveying the scene, 
 On the rock in its native glory ! 
 
 It is known to the mariners, passing along, 
 
 By its rustic cross erected ; 
 As it stands, a compacted mass, and strong, 
 From the line of cliff projected ; 
 
 And the hand of time 
 
 Has made it sublime, 
 So fretted with age and hoary ; 
 
 And there it stands, 
 
 Where the zephyr fans, 
 A rock in its native glory !
 
 36 
 
 BLACK-GANG CHINE. 
 
 "An inauspicious spot 
 Since nature here no happy feature wears . : 
 
 Scene of terrific grandeur ! Hail to thee ! 
 
 In all thy frowning aspect, wild and drear; 
 Not one of Nature's softer lines we see — 
 
 All — all is barren, desolate, austere ! 
 
 Well may we call thee by that cheerless name, 
 
 That 'wakes associations all malign; 
 Well may the homeward-bound, who know thy fame, 
 
 Fear as they near the rocks of Black-Gang Chine. 
 
 When loudly howls around the wintry storm, 
 And billows mountainous dash on thy shore ; 
 
 When lurid lightning flashes light thy form, 
 And thunder shakes thee with its awful roar — 
 
 Then in thy glory thou art all arrayed — 
 A rugged scenery, and a warring sky ; 
 
 Companions meet, and for each other made — 
 
 Grandest art thou when winter's storms beat high. 
 
 Then does the smuggler ply his daring trade, 
 Wealth, life, and liberty, the fearful stake ! 
 
 Under the cover of thy gloomy shade, 
 
 Madly he dares his country's laws to break. 
 
 Oft have the cries of wrecked ones on thy coast, 
 By raging billows thrown, at midnight's hour,
 
 > 

 
 37 
 
 Mingled with crash of stranded vessels, tost 
 Mid sunken reefs by Ocean's awful power !* 
 
 Gently thy streamlet murmurs on its way, 
 
 "When tempests thunder not : but oft I've known 
 
 Its waters lifted in a glorious spray — 
 
 A misty cloud — when hurricanes have blown ! 
 
 Bugged and barren Chine ! the wildest shore 
 In Vecta's lovely Isle ; thou hast thy charms 
 
 For those who revel in the Ocean's roar, 
 Whose spirits quicken 'mid its wild alarms ! 
 
 THE WALKS ABOUND MY NATIVE 
 
 TOWN. 
 
 1 Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes 
 And fondly broods with miser care ; 
 Time but the impression deeper makes. 
 As streams their channels deeper wear." — Burns. 
 
 The walks around my native town 
 
 Are beautiful indeed ! 
 The purling stream, the furze-clad down, 
 
 The flower-bespangled mead, 
 
 • See Poem, "The Fatal Storm." For page refer to Index.
 
 38 
 
 The shady lane, the woodlands green, 
 
 The rising hill, the dell ; 
 Possess a power to soothe and please — 
 
 A welcome, gladsome spell. 
 
 I need not wander for delights 
 
 "Which greet me near my home : 
 I find them in my daily walks, 
 
 Which way soe'er I roam ; 
 Association adds its charm, 
 
 And makes them sweeter still; 
 For memory's secret powers entrance 
 
 And captivate the will. 
 
 "Where is the eye which does not dim, 
 
 As it again surveys 
 The scenes which once it loved to view, 
 
 In childhood's careless days ? 
 Where is the soul which can, unmoved, 
 
 Familiar haunts retread, 
 Made sacred by the footprints of 
 
 The loved, and honoured dead ? 
 
 Aye ! it may e'en be so with those 
 
 Who feign would rise above, 
 "What they term frailties of mankind — 
 
 The weaknesses of love ! 
 / would not have the heart of stone : 
 
 I seek not such renown ; 
 No ! still I'll love the pleasant walks 
 
 Around my native town !
 
 39 
 
 "THE POND," BONCHUBCH. 
 
 (By Moonlight.) 
 " The lake, scarce glimmering through the circling trees."— Atkins. 
 
 Sweet mimic lake ! how oft my eye 
 Ha3 gazed upon thy bosom fair, 
 
 While Cynthia's beams have shone on high, 
 And odours sweet have Sll'd the air. 
 
 When from thy overhanging grove, 
 That cooling shade in 6ultry days, 
 
 Sweet Philomel, with voice of love, 
 Has warbled forth her evening lays. 
 
 When trembling on thy waters clear 
 Reflected stars have brightly shone ; 
 
 And dew-drops, like the falling tear, 
 Have stirred thy surface one by one. 
 
 Again at eve, thy banks I pace, 
 Eetreating from life's busy scene ; 
 
 To taste the sweetness of this place — 
 So placid, beautiful, serene. 
 
 Not now the swan majestic glides, 
 
 Night's slumber has its eyelids sealed : 
 
 Not now the boat upon thee rides, 
 Its oars, not now the children wield.
 
 40 
 
 Tired, sentient Nature sinks to rest, 
 
 Though soon will break its short repose; 
 
 Morn will with life the scene invest, 
 And all its brighter views disclose. 
 
 Till then, thou sweet translucent lake, 
 Be quiet, peace, and stillness thine ; 
 
 Fain would I here my sojourn make, 
 And on thy banks till morn recline ! 
 
 THE CAPTIVE FKEED. 
 
 Lines penned after viewing the monument to the memory of the youthful Princes? 
 Elizabeth, erected by Her Majesty Queen Victoria, in St. Thomas's Church, 
 Newport, Isle of Wight, " as a token of respect for her virtue, and of sympathy 
 for her misfortune." 
 
 "Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay."— Young. 
 
 Burst is thy prison, and broken its bars, 
 Thy spirit hath risen, and soared 'bove the stars ; 
 Found is the rest, which, imprisoned and dreary, 
 Greeted thy faith's eye — the rest for the weary. 
 
 Chequered thy short career, maiden of sorrow ; 
 Hope of to-day to be blasted to-morrow ; 
 Torn from thy palace, luxurious and splendid, — 
 Pent within prison walls, lone, unbefriended !
 
 41 
 
 Few were the years of thy sojourn below,* 
 As fade the sweet flowerets when biting winds blow, 
 "Untimely thy drooping ; yet welcomed by thee, 
 Death severed thy fetters, and bid thee be free. 
 
 Here do thy ashes rest, famous in story ; 
 
 Here, when thy spirit fled, noiseless they bore thee ; 
 
 Heralds appeared not with pompous array ; 
 
 Low hirelings interred thee, then hurried away ! 
 
 Years have rolled on since that heart-thrilling scene ; 
 Now justice has spoken, and Britain's fair Queen 
 Has raised to thy memory this beautiful shrine ; 
 Meet only, dear Princess, for virtues like thine. 
 
 How sweet was thy pillowf — how cheerful the ray 
 It threw o'er thy features, as life ebb'd away ; 
 Its promises rallied thy faltering breath — 
 Thy solace in life and thy triumph in death ! 
 
 Yes, — we repine not, — no prison awaits thee ; 
 The home of the blest holds no spirit that hates thee : 
 Thy pinions are free, and thy chains are all broken, 
 " Come!" is the word which from glory is spoken ! 
 
 • " Fifteen years were more than her life's restricted span, yet three of them 
 were passed in bondage — bondage whose sickening sorrow was at last quickened 
 into acute agony by orphanage, with the addition of its prison being the same walls 
 that had echoed her father's sighs and mocked his efforts to escape."— Beat's 
 " Chwrch af St. Thomas' t," 
 
 + She died as represented in the monument, — her hands clasped in prayer, and 
 her cheek resting upon the pages of her inseparable companion, the Bible, opened 
 at these words, " Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will 
 give.you rest."— Matt. xi. 28.
 
 42 
 
 THE BELLS OF ST. THOMAS'S CHURCH, 
 NEWPOET, ISLE OF WIGHT. 
 
 Written on again hearing their peal, after the tower was rebuilt. 
 
 "There is in souls a sympathy with sounds." — Cotvper. 
 
 Lovely Bells ! accept our greeting, 
 
 Echoing o'er our Island plains; 
 Silent long, once more harmonious, 
 
 Pleasant are your swelling strains ! 
 "Welcome, welcome ! merrily chiming, 
 
 Gladness spreading all around ; 
 Welcome, welcome ! all uniting, 
 
 Gladly hail your well-known sound. 
 
 Mounted in your gorgeous steeple, 
 
 Higher now than formerly ; 
 Like the uncaged bird exulting — 
 
 Pouring forth your harmony : * 
 Welcome, welcome ! sounds familiar ; 
 
 Sounds in infancy well known ; 
 Buoyant youth, and age descrepit, 
 
 Still shall love your merry tone. 
 
 Ye shall tell when happy couples 
 
 Plight their vows with hearts sincere ; 
 
 Cheer them with your peal of gladness — 
 Chase away love's trembling tear; —
 
 H 
 
 tsj
 
 43 
 
 Give us, too, when worth departeth, 
 Doleful sounds— the muffled peal ; 
 
 Chime whene'er events conspiring, 
 Deeply touch our nation's weal. 
 
 Lovely Bells ! right glad we greet you ! 
 
 Echoing o'er our Island plains ; 
 Silent long, once more harmonious, 
 
 Pleasant are your merry strains ! 
 Long may Newport hail your chiming, 
 
 Spreading gladness all around ; 
 Welcome, welcome ! all uniting, 
 
 Hail again your well-known sound ! 
 
 SHANKLIN CHINE. 
 
 ' Lovely indeed the mimic works of art; 
 But Nature's works far lovelier!"— Oowper. 
 
 " "What great results from small beginnings rise !' 
 Exclaimed the poet once, with rapt surprise ; 
 And we repeat the well remembered line, 
 While dwelling on the rise of " Shanklin Chine." 
 
 No great volitions of the human will, 
 Nor human enterprise, nor power, nor skill, 
 That chasm delved, by hosts admiring seen, 
 The power that wrought it was — a little stream !
 
 44 
 
 Through time's long eras it has flowed along, 
 In gentle murmurings, like a distant song ; 
 The limpid spring gave forth its water free, 
 And sent it bubbling to the briny sea. 
 "Be useful on thy course," was its command, 
 "Not only cheer, but decorate the land; 
 Give beauty, life, and freshness where thou flowest, 
 Let nature's verdure track thee where thou goest." 
 " I will," responds the stream, with gladsome mirth, 
 Resolved to make tbe sweetest spot on earth ! 
 
 Through fields and meadows on it sped its way, 
 With purpose bent, the mandate to obey ; 
 Oft foiled and disappointed did it wend, 
 'Till it had reached well nigh its journey's end. 
 Here, lingering for awhile, as if intent 
 To do some magic work ere it was spent, 
 It first conceived the beautiful design, 
 Of adding to our glories ShanUin Chine. 
 
 With patience tireless, and purpose sure, 
 It sought its tasteful object to mature. 
 On, on, it flowed — the yielding soil obeyed, 
 And soon an opening in the cliff was made. 
 Deeper and deeper in the earth it sank, 
 Which shelved above it in a sandy bank ; 
 This undermined, soon fell into the spray, 
 And by the rushing wave was washed away. 
 
 With time the little current's work advanced, 
 Its beauty, too, was steadily enhanced ; 
 The acorn fell, the forest oak tree grew,
 
 45 
 
 And seeds were wafted by each wind that blew ; 
 Thus was the spirit of the stream relieved, 
 And thus its promised work in part achieved. 
 
 Still, still untiring must the little rill 
 Wait time's free help its purpose to fulfil, 
 And gather round it all we love to see 
 Of sober hues, and^ wild variety, 
 Abruptness, ruggedness, with beauty too, 
 Which knows no order, to complete the view. 
 
 All this attained, then were the feathered throng 
 Summoned, to thrill their note with sweetest song, 
 And build their nests, and rear their tiny young, 
 Where, wild above them, shadowy branches hung. 
 
 The stream could nothing more but pledge old Time, 
 His watch to keep upon the work sublime : 
 It then imbued it with a winning spell, 
 And bade it, with a cheerful smile, "farewell!" 
 
 Thus was the mandate of the spring obeyed ; 
 Thus was completed what the stream assayed ; 
 Time has well kept its promise, and with care 
 Has guarded jealously its trust so fair; 
 The spell to it imparted lingers still, 
 And birds and flowers their task assigned fulfil ; 
 Still murmurs loud its beauteous waterfall, 
 And joy and happiness seemed stamped on all : 
 And bridal bliss finds sweet accordance here, 
 And mingles, midst its shades, affection's tear, 
 And, turning from their wanderings, all assign 
 The highest meed of praise to " Shanklin Chine !"
 
 46 
 
 THE LOVELY ISLE. 
 
 " That beautiful Island which he who once sees never forgets, through what- 
 ever part of the wide world hi3 future path may lead him." — Sir W. Scott's: 
 " Surgeon's Daughter." 
 
 Sweet Vecta, thou ha3t many charms, 
 
 In rich profusion found ; 
 "We greet them from thy girdling coast, 
 
 Where wild waves flash around ; 
 Whate'er the eye delights to see 
 
 Of grandeur, or repose — 
 The rugged, or the beautiful, 
 
 Thy noble cliffs enclose. 
 
 Bright are thy scenes of hill and dale, 
 
 And shady woodlands, too ; 
 Meandering stream, and gurgling rill, 
 
 And fields of richest hue ; 
 And beautiful thy pebbly beach, 
 
 White with the ocean's foam, 
 Where, gazing o'er the watery waste, 
 
 The eye delights to roam. 
 
 And if, perchance, by science led, 
 
 The savant seeks thy shore, 
 Thy strata to investigate — 
 
 Thy marl caves to explore ;
 
 47 
 
 How amply is his labour paid 
 
 By fossil treasures rare,* 
 "Which, lifted from their ocean bed, 
 
 Thy rocks so richly bear. 
 
 And should the antiquary come 
 
 To ask of times of yore, 
 To him thou dost a field present, 
 
 Rich with a buried store ; 
 For relics of an ancient datef 
 
 From thee have been exhumed ; 
 Spoils of the dead, now lost to fame, 
 
 Then sacredly entombed. 
 
 Upon thy downs, which soaring rise, 
 Clad in the richest green, 
 
 The obelisk, beacon, monument, 
 And ancient tower are seen; 
 
 Objects of deepest interest, they, 
 Memorials of the past, 
 
 • Hillier, in his " Topography of the Isle of Wight," speaking of St. Helens, says, 
 — "It is a locale interesting- in many particulars, especially to the lovers of the 
 marvellous secrets of geology, which, at this eastern extremity of the Island, are 
 powerfully developed. Shells, of several genera, occur in immense numbers ; 
 teeth, bones of fishes, reptiles, and the remains of crustaceans are occasionally 
 found ; lignite, shells of certain genera that inhabit estuaries, and relics of animals, 
 &c, that lived and died in ancient seas." 
 
 + " Curious memorials of a past age have been exhumed in this vicinity. — In a 
 quarry, west of Ventnor, was discovered the skeleton of a female, with an armlet, 
 which indicated the Roman-British period of the Island history. Large antlers, 
 too, have been discovered in this singular region, seemingly indicating that, in the 
 past, the red deer haunted the neighbouring woods." — " Garden Isle." We 
 must not forget, also, the ancient British Villages of Gallibury and Rowborough, 
 the Roman villa, lately uncovered at Carisbrooke, and the Tumuli, on Bow- 
 combe, Afton and Arreton Downs, &c.
 
 48 
 
 As there they stand, defying still, 
 The wintry stormy blast. 
 
 Thy shingled shores, thy rocky strand, 
 
 Thy heath-clad downs and hills, 
 Thy sweet retreats and noble parks, 
 
 Thy groves and gushing rills, 
 Combine in one to render thee, 
 
 "What fondly all declare — 
 The sweetest spot of British soil, 
 
 Old England's "Garden fair!" 
 
 SWAINSTON, 
 
 The Seat of Sir John Simeon, Bart. 
 
 " I can recall, from reasons early dawn, 
 The splendid mansion, and the stately lawn ; 
 The fields, the woods, the temple, and the lake." 
 
 Among the lordly mansions, 
 
 Which grace our lovely Isle, 
 For beauty famed and grandeur, 
 
 Is Swainston's ancient pile; 
 Surrounded by rich verdure, 
 
 And scenes which never pall, 
 It stands a noble structure — 
 
 An old baronial hall.
 
 49 
 
 Yes, varied charms commingle 
 
 To captivate the eye ; 
 Fair Nature's rural beauties 
 
 And Art's improvements vie, 
 To claim the muse's tribute, 
 
 For many a knoll is there, 
 And lake, and grot, and bower, 
 
 And exquisite parterre. 
 
 How sweet to track the footpaths 
 
 Throughout its sylvan shade ; 
 And scent mellifluous odours 
 
 "Which every breath pervade ; — 
 To see the rich exotics 
 
 Of every tint and hue ; 
 And hear the murmuring waters, 
 
 Which feathered songsters woo. 
 
 Beyond its grounds' fair precincts, 
 
 A noble view expands, 
 Of undulating meadows, 
 
 And richly wooded lands ; 
 And many a rural homestead 
 
 Rejoices in its sway, 
 Where Newtown's tidal river 
 
 Runs curling on its way. 
 
 Its distant columned temple 
 
 Upon the rising lea, 
 Commands the coast adjacent 
 
 Beyond the Solent Sea;
 
 50 
 
 There 'neath umbrageous verdure, 
 
 The eye can roam at will, 
 And, wheresoe'er it turneth, 
 
 Find something lovely still. 
 
 Fair Swainston ! much loved dwelling 
 
 Of one we name with pride, 
 May peace be thine, and plenty, 
 
 As time's streams onward glide ; 
 May Heaven's enduring blessing 
 
 Rest — ever rest — on thee ; 
 And Simeon's name and Swainston 
 
 Ne'er separated be ! 
 
 THE ISLANDEB'S IMITATION. 
 
 "Abused mortals ! did you know 
 
 Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow; 
 
 You'd scorn proud towers, 
 
 And seek them in these bowers, 
 Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake, 
 But blustering care could neyer tempest make ; 
 
 Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, 
 
 Saving of fountains that glide by us." — Sir W. Raleigh. 
 
 Come to our sea-girt Isle, 
 
 Whose charms are ever new ; 
 From busy court and city 
 
 We gladly welcome you ; 
 Come to our sea-girt Isle, 
 
 So lovely, fair, and bright, 
 The " Garden of Old England," 
 
 The Royal Isle of Wight !
 
 51 
 
 come, gaze on its beauties, — 
 
 Its uplands and its vales, 
 Its woodlands, and its meadows, 
 
 Its hills, and groves, and dales, 
 Its chines, and parks, and rivers, 
 
 Its rocks, and coves, and caves, 
 Its cliffs, and noble headlands, 
 
 'Neath which the ocean laves. 
 
 Come, view its ancient Castle, 
 
 "With rapt emotion trace 
 The fret- work clustering beauties 
 
 Of that historic place ; 
 Call up the associations 
 
 Indelibly entwined, 
 Like ivy, round the structure 
 
 "Where Chaeles was long confined. 
 
 Come, watch its heaving ocean, 
 
 And pace its shingled shore ; 
 Its heath-clad downs, and highlands 
 
 With lingering steps explore ; 
 Come, trace its running streamlets 
 
 Of limpid waters clear ; 
 And wander mid its woodlands 
 
 The linnets' song to hear. 
 
 0, who would live in cities, 
 
 Mid, dust, and smoke, and heat, 
 
 Inhaling poisonous gasses, 
 Uprising from each street !
 
 52 
 
 Blocked in the narrow passage, 
 And jostled by the throng ; 
 
 In each to meet a stranger 
 By business urged along ! 
 
 Ah, no ! as flies the swallow 
 
 From wintry stormy blast, 
 Come ye, who pant for leisure, 
 
 To our sweet Island haste ! 
 Leave anxious thought behind you, 
 
 And soul corroding care ; 
 A hearty welcome 'waits you, 
 
 In this our Island fair ! 
 
 ALUM BAY. 
 
 " "lis beauty truly blent, whose red and white 
 Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on." — Shakspeare. 
 
 I fancied in the distance that thy cliff, sweet Alum Bay, 
 "Was a rainbow in its glory, which all along thee lay ; 
 And I fancied I could see its rays — magnificent, divine, 
 Of every hue and colour in its peerless radiance shine. 
 
 But no, 'twas not a rainbow ; it was not a passing sight ; 
 'Twas grandeur real and permanent that fill'd me with delight ; 
 'T was thine own self in all thy rare and beautiful array : [Bay ! 
 Scarce rainbow charms could heighten thine, sweet cliff of Alum 
 
 In childhood's artless happy days, I loved to see thee rise, 
 "With ocean'sdeep blue waters spread beneath the cloudless skies;
 
 53 
 
 With proud majestic cliffs beyond, so dazzling to the eye, 
 And rippling waves that kissed the shore in ecstacies of joy ! 
 
 And much I loved to stand and watch the sea-fowls flutt'ring 
 
 round, 
 Or where, upon projecting crags, in numbers they abound ; 
 To hear their clamorous, screeching noise, as oft they soared away , 
 Or dived beneath the briny tide to catch their finny prey. 
 
 Yes, and I loved to climb thy cliff of every various hue, 
 In quest of tints I prized the most, the violet and the blue ; 
 In varied form to mould tbe sand which heaped before me lay, 
 Mementoes of my visit to the cliff of Alum Bay. 
 
 would, fair spot! that readier pen, and loftier muse than mine, 
 In flowing verse, and numbers sweet, thy beauties would enshrine ! 
 But, were it so, did highest muse to thee full tribute pay, 
 Unknown to those, by whom unseen, the charms of Alumn Bay ! 
 
 ASHEY DOWN. 
 
 "It was an evening bright and still 
 As ever blushed on wave or bower, 
 Smiling from heaven, as if nought ill 
 
 Could happen in bo sweet an hour." — Moore. 
 
 Beneath thy old triangled Tower* 
 Sweet Down, I loved to rest, 
 
 In gladsome youth to watch the sun, 
 Sink in the distant west, — 
 
 * This triangular-shaped pyramid, was erected in 1735, to serve as a mark for 
 ships coming into St. Helen's or Spithead. Here Leigh Richmond retired after his 
 first converse with the " Dairyman's Daughter."— (See that Work.
 
 54 
 
 To watch his beams, so beautiful ! 
 
 As slowly they decline, 
 Below the horizon's farthest bound — 
 
 Effulgent and divine. 
 
 Again upon thy lovely height 
 
 I watch the closing day ; 
 While balmy zephyrs pass along 
 
 And gentle breezes play ; 
 As yet, yon scarcely rippled sea, 
 
 Reflects the azure sky ; 
 And bleating sheep, and songster bird, 
 
 Yield constant harmony. 
 
 But fainter grow life's vivid sounds, 
 
 Subdued the scene appears ; 
 The sea, no longer azure tinged, 
 
 A gloomy aspect wears ; 
 The sun draws round his mantle gray — 
 
 Scarce tinted is the view ; 
 And now he takes his parting glance, 
 
 And bids the world " adieu !" 
 
 And every note and feathery wing 
 
 Of wearied bird is still ; 
 The horizon's bound is dimly traced, 
 
 Shadowed each distant hill ; 
 The moon, with softened silvery sheen, 
 
 Assumes her place on high ; 
 And countless stars — far distant suns — 
 
 Beign in the cloudless sky.
 
 « 
 
 
 _
 
 55 
 
 And round and round the dark bat flits, 
 
 And wantons in its way ; 
 The owlet screams ; from yonder farm 
 
 Is heard the mastiff's bay ; 
 The glow-worms glittering at my feet, 
 
 Like mundane planets throng ; 
 And from yon woodland thrilling comes 
 
 The nightingale's glad song ! 
 
 Sweet starlit scene ! sweet summer's eve ! 
 
 So welcome to the breast 
 Of one, who from the busy world 
 
 Retires awhile to rest ! 
 I leave thee now, full soon again 
 
 Immersed in cares to be ; 
 But blest the quiet, peaceful hours, 
 
 Sweet Down, I spend on thee ! 
 
 THE FATAL STORM. 
 
 Supposed to be uttered by a passenger on board the Clarendon, which was wrecked 
 at Black Gang, October 11th, 1836, when twenty-four souls perished. 
 
 Portentous and awful, I see it approaching, 
 where is the covert to which I can fly ? 
 
 The winds and the waves the dread story are broaching, 
 Foreboding the terrible storm which is nigh ! 
 
 Oh ! where is the Bhelter ? see ! see it encroaching ! 
 The billows are swelling — the waves running high !
 
 56 
 
 Loud roareth the thunder, fast darteth the lightning, 
 Illuming the surges with meteor-like glare ! 
 
 Breakers their white crested bosoms are heaving, 
 Imprinting each visage with dire despair ; 
 
 The mighty ship staggers ! Its bulwarks are failing ! 
 Their voice is — "for death, in the billows, prepare." 
 
 Friends and companions, perhaps at your pleasures, 
 Ah ! little you think I now bid you adieu ; 
 
 Ah ! little you think that my pallid lip quivers, 
 In uttering the farewell, now taken of you ! 
 
 My heart how it flutters — my mind how it wavers, 
 "While dwelling on friendships so tender and true ! 
 
 Alas ! it is over, no effort can save me ! 
 
 No missile can reach me, no fragment preserve ! 
 My mother — my father — ah ! sonless you'll soon be- 
 
 I sink in the cruel — the pitiless surge ! 
 Farewell ! may we meet in the regions of glory, 
 
 When Gabriel's summons shall bid me emerge ! 
 
 MOUNT MISEEY,* KEAE WHIPPINGHAM. 
 
 " How lovely, from this hill's superior height 
 Spreads the wide view before my straining sight !" — H. K. White. 
 
 What means this gloomy name, 
 And wherefore was it given ? 
 
 • This property ha9 lately been purchased by His Royal Highness the Prince 
 Consort, and is undergoing improvements of a very extensive and decided character.
 
 57 
 
 "Why should fair Vecta's fame 
 From this sole spot be driven ? 
 Misnomer ! changed its name shall be, 
 "We will not have "Mount Misery !" 
 
 Does want here make abode, 
 
 And squalid wretchedness ? 
 Does pain its inmates goad — 
 And anxious cares oppress ? 
 That thus miscalled the spot should be, 
 By that dread name, " Mount Misery ?" 
 
 Is barrenness around ? 
 
 Does not a floweret bloom 
 Upon the parched ground 
 To cheer the heart of gloom ? 
 Is all confirmed sterility 
 Upon the " Mount of Misery ?" 
 
 Away with thoughts like these ! 
 
 Ill brooks it such a name ; 
 The spot if seen must please 
 And may in justice claim 
 To be the " Mount Fertility,"— 
 " Mount Pleasant," not " Mount Misery !" 
 
 The homes which here are found, 
 
 Are homes where joys abide ; 
 The trees which here abound 
 Are waving in their pride ; 
 And all around the eye can see 
 Pictures, reverse of "Misery."
 
 58 
 
 If time will not erase, 
 
 This old forbidding name, 
 Yet shall its smiling face 
 Exalt our Island's fame — 
 For sweet all other spots must be 
 If this be called " Mount Misery ! " 
 
 ST. LAWKENCE WELL. 
 
 " Hail, lovely grotto ! Hail Elysian soil ! 
 Thou fairest spot of fair Britannia's isle."— Tickell. 
 
 Turn aside, poor weary traveller, 
 Drink, and be refresh' d ; 
 
 On these rustic shaded benches, 
 Sit thee down and rest ; 
 
 All around conspires to assure thee 
 Thou'rt a welcome guest. 
 
 Sit thee down and I will tell thee, 
 
 What of late befel, 
 One who came to drink the waters 
 
 Of this crystal well, — 
 Streaming from the rocks above us, 
 
 "Where the sea-gulls dwell. 
 
 What his name, or birth I wot not, 
 What he did I know ;

 
 59 
 
 This bright rill of cooling water, 
 
 Thou to him dost owe ; 
 Had he lacked the free-man's spirit 
 
 Hidden it would flow. 
 
 Wearied by a lengthened journey, 
 
 And by thirst oppressed, 
 Here he came in quest of water, 
 
 And of needful rest ; 
 But the door was barred before him — 
 
 He was sore distressed. 
 
 Disappointed of his errand, 
 
 Indignation grew ; 
 From his wallet, pen and paper 
 
 Quickly forth he drew, — 
 Penned some racy lines, and put them 
 
 Up to public view.* 
 
 * In consequence of various depredations having been committed at the well, 
 the late Earl of Yarborough caused it to be locked up. During the summer of 
 1843, the following lines were written by a person unknown, and placed over the 
 door, which, on being taken down by a gentleman in that neighbourhood, were 
 handed to his Lordship, who was so much pleased with the jeu d'erprit, as to give 
 directions for the Well to be unlocked, and it has ever since been open to the 
 public : — 
 
 " This Well, we must own, is most splendidly placed, 
 And very romantic we think it ; 
 The water, no doubt, too, would pleasantly taste 
 If we could but get at it, to drink it ! 
 
 " We wish that the per§on who owneth this Well, 
 May walk a long way, and get ' knocked up;' 
 And then, if its pleasant or not, he can tell, 
 When he comes to some water that's lock'd up !"
 
 60 
 
 Seen they were and quickly handed 
 
 To the Noble Lord, 
 Who admired the open candour 
 
 Of the simple bard ; 
 And he said, " The "Well from henceforth 
 
 Shall remain unbarred." 
 
 Such his words, nor changing purpose 
 
 Altered this command ; 
 And the doors which guard the grotto 
 
 Still wide open stand — 
 Still the traveller finds with pleasure 
 
 Cooling streams at hand. 
 
 But, alas ! the Earl has ended 
 
 This life's transient day ; 
 Death has reft his well-known features 
 
 From our gaze away : 
 Loved, revered, and long remembered, 
 
 Be his kindly sway ! 
 
 Like him, may his honoured offspring 
 
 Guard this resting spot, — 
 Mindful of the public welfare, 
 
 Keep unbarred this grot, — 
 Then their names, by weary travellers, 
 
 Shall not be forgot !
 
 61 
 
 CAEISBEOOKE CEMETEEY.* 
 
 ' How powerful and how peaceful is the grave." — Byron. 
 
 From the mounds of the Castle, I view with emotion 
 
 Ton cemetery crowning the hill ; 
 It awakens within me the thrill of devotion, 
 
 And biddeth earth's turmoil be still. 
 
 And beauteous it is, this abode for the dead, 
 
 For nothing there tells of decay ; 
 But the sweet-scented flower lifts up its bright head, 
 
 And the skylark is chaunting its lay. 
 
 ■ 
 
 Yet, ah ! though with all that is tasteful combined, 
 
 It may not its purpose disguise ; 
 There slumber earth's children ; there, lowly enshrined, 
 
 The spirit's frail tenement lies. 
 
 And oft will the mourner, with heart rent, and torn, 
 
 That steep winding pathway ascend, 
 To lay 'neath thy verdure the form which has borne 
 
 The name of a brother or friend. 
 
 Yes ! oft will thy walks by bereaved ones be paced, 
 
 And dear will thy dust to them be, 
 For the loved, who from mem'ry can ne'er be effaced, 
 
 Will safely He treasured in thee! 
 
 • Formed in 1858, at the cost of £4,300, and extends over five acres,— two-thirds 
 of which were consecrated by the Lord Bishop of Winchester, April 27th, 1858.
 
 62 
 
 ! little I dreamed when in childhood's light glee 
 
 I played by the side of yon hill, 
 That poor weeping 'reft ones would there bend the knee 
 
 Submissive to Heaven's high will. 
 
 Yet such the mutation we constantly view, 
 
 Its impress is stamped upon all ; 
 And the scenes which our mirth-loving childhood well knew. 
 
 In age we can scarcely recal ! 
 
 THE ISLANDEE'S SONG. 
 
 ' Gay, simple, free, I rove along. 
 And wood and hill resound my song."— Hcmans. 
 
 I live in a beautiful Isle, 
 
 Surrounded by salt waters, blue ; 
 Where prospects and scenes sweetly smile, 
 
 So varied in form, tint and hue 
 I can list to the hum of the bee — 
 
 Can catch the sweet song of the bird ; 
 And the bleating of sheep on the lea, 
 
 And the music which comes from the herd. 
 
 The trees of the forest I know, 
 
 And can track through its mazes my way ; 
 Know where the pale primroses grow, 
 
 And the cowslips and blue-bells so gay ;
 
 63 
 
 The violet's refreshing perfume — 
 The roses and sweet smelling thyme, 
 
 All greet me, as gladly I roam, 
 Surveying the prospects sublime. 
 
 I can trace the meandering rill, 
 
 Careering its devious way, 
 'Till it setteth in motion the mill, 
 
 Or stealeth through hatchways astray ; 
 The haymaker's mirth in the mead — 
 
 The reaper's glad song in the field, 
 And the sower's — while casting his seed — 
 
 All, all, to me pleasure can yield ! 
 
 To its highlands and hills I can bound, 
 
 And trip round the fairy rings there ; 
 Or can follow the huntsman and hound, 
 
 In chase of the fox or the hare : 
 To the woods, in the Autumn, away 
 
 "With basket and crook I can go, 
 To gather, while there I may stay, 
 
 The blackberry, nut, or wild sloe. 
 
 Who, then, is so happy as I ? 
 So merry, so blithe, or so gay ? 
 
 ye, who in cities but sigh, 
 The calls of sweet Nature obey ! 
 
 1 would not in city reside, 
 Whatever the bribe or the plea ; 
 
 Who will, in its smoke may abide — 
 My Island, my Island for me!
 
 64 
 
 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 " Warmth," will they term it, that I speak so free ? 
 They strip thy shades, — thy shades so dear to me ! 
 1 hate the murderous axe : estranging more 
 The winding vale from what it was of yore!"— Bloomfiehl. 
 
 "Where are the childish haunts 
 In which I loved to stray ? 
 Where are the rural walks, 
 "Where once I loved to play ? 
 Those verdant spots, to memory dear ! 
 Which oft I think of with a tear ? 
 
 Many have disappeared, 
 
 And buildings o'er them rise ; 
 And nature's face is changed 
 To dull monotonies — 
 No more the hum of bees is heard, 
 Or o'er them flits the happy bird. 
 
 And many a rural walk 
 
 Which once to all was free, 
 Is barricaded now, 
 
 And none its sweets may see ; 
 Alas ! the selfishness of man 
 Will bar from others all it can. 
 
 'Tis no delight for me 
 
 To roam where others please ; 
 I love, at liberty, 
 
 To wander at my ease, 
 With nothing to impede my way, 
 But where I fancy, there to stray.
 
 65 
 
 I hate those heartless words, 
 "Which often at me glare, 
 Stopping my onward course — 
 
 "Pbivate," " No Thobotjghfabe ;" 
 And turning oft, I pity those 
 Who thus such lovely spots would close ! 
 
 Ah, well ! I will not mourn, 
 
 Still nature spreads its joys ; 
 And to the distant dell, 
 My spirit oft decoys — 
 There many a spot my eyes can scan, 
 Not spoiled by art ; not marred by man ! 
 
 LTJCCOMBE CHINE. 
 
 (On visiting it after a very lengthened absence.) 
 
 " The tear-drops stand in either eye, 
 And yet I cannot tell thee why — 
 
 I'm pleas'd, and yet I'm sad."— IT. K. White. 
 
 What is it so attracts my steps 
 
 To this secluded spot ? 
 Numbers of objects have I seen, 
 Since to this mimic chine I've been; 
 Yet still by me its lovely scene, 
 
 Is not forgot. 
 
 The little rill runs curling still, 
 
 Into the deep blue sea ; 
 The yellow sand banks rise on high ; 
 
 F
 
 66 
 
 The twittering titlark flutters by ; 
 And all an aspect wears of joy — 
 How sweet to me ! 
 
 Yet 'tis not nature's sweets alone, 
 
 Affect my yielding heart ; 
 Others with unmoved soul might gaze 
 Upon the beauties of this place ; 
 And with a cold indifference, trace 
 
 Each lovely part. 
 
 'Tis that my thoughts are carried back 
 To days, bright days, gone by ; 
 
 Associations sweet and dear, 
 
 Beguile me as I linger here ; 
 
 'Tis hard for me to check the tear, 
 And hush the sigh. 
 
 But why, why does conflict thus 
 
 Within my breast begin ? 
 'Tis that my bosom heaved no sigh, 
 When first thy beauties caught my eye ; 
 Ah, yes ! the secret is, that I 
 
 Was happy then ! 
 
 Familiar spots I yet can trace, 
 
 Where then I stood or strayed : 
 The thoughts which then my bosom filled- 
 The plans and purposes I willed, 
 While Hope stood by the schemes to gild, 
 Have not decayed.
 
 
 
 [l, *
 
 67 
 
 No ! still upon my sentient heart, 
 
 Engraven deep are they ; 
 The thoughts of yesterday are gone ; 
 E'en later thoughts have almost flown ; 
 Yet linger with a peaceful tone, 
 
 Thoughts of that day ! 
 
 Sweet Chine ! Thou dost indeed possess 
 
 Some deeply hidden spell ; 
 Unchanged by time's destroying strides, 
 It still within thy cleft resides, 
 And o'er thy fairy form presides — 
 Sweet Chine, farewell ! 
 
 THE FATAL STEP. 
 
 (From the Cliff, near Freshwater Gate. J 
 
 " Such is the tale so aad, to memory dear, 
 And even now, with melancholy power, 
 Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour, 
 'Mid all the charms by magic Nature given 
 To this wild spot."— S. E. White. 
 
 In youthful glee he rambled o'er the cliffs and rocky strand, 
 The youngest and the blithest of all that happy band, 
 Who roved where'er they listed, or together or alone; 
 And roved until the sable shades of eve were hastening on.
 
 68 
 
 Ah, yes ! methinks no other then so happy was as he, 
 In all the glowing ardour of his youthful buoyancy ! 
 Unused to scenery so grand — to views so passing fair, [there. 
 High on the towering cliffs he strayed, to trace the prospect 
 
 Yes, it was thus ! and while he scanned broad ocean's rolling 
 
 tide, 
 Absorbed in its magnificence, he thought of nought beside ; 
 Too near the fearful ledge he drew, one step — and all was o'er! 
 One gasp on the unpitying crags — that breast then heaved no 
 
 more ! 
 
 His young life spent; there, there he lay, unheeded, unobserved ; 
 None saw him fall, none heard his shriek, none knew what 
 
 had occurred ; 
 The sea gull, startled from its nest, soon sought its nest again ; 
 And all around was hushed, except the rolling of the main. 
 
 Save in the distance joyous shouts and merry laughter rose, 
 Till shading evening brought their mirth and rambling to a 
 
 close ; 
 Ere all had mustered at the inn, one party, blithe and gay, 
 Had filled the first conveyance, and were hastening away. 
 
 Another group soon gathered from the placid moon-lit shore, 
 And thinking that the little lad had gone with those before, 
 Departed from their scene of joy, alas ! but to return 
 The fleeting character of life and happiness, to learn. 
 
 For at the starting point arrived, they missed the blithe young 
 
 boy, [of joy ! 
 
 Ah ! then how downcast was each look, each heart how 'reft
 
 69 
 
 Keturning all, full quest was made, how earnest and how sad ! 
 For nothing, nothing could they hear about the missing lad. 
 
 They keenly searched along the shore; they loudly called 
 
 his name ; 
 'Twas echo — nought but echo, from the cliffs resounding came ; 
 How hurriedly, distractedly, they paced that moon-lit strand, 
 While gentle wavelets seemed to chide the almost frantic band ! 
 
 But now, one anxious eye was raised above the pebbly shore, 
 And something on the crags discerned which his resemblance 
 
 bore; 
 It was — it was his mangled corpse ! distorted, stiff, and cold ! 
 And screams, and cries of anguish loud, the dreadful truth soon 
 
 told. 
 
 "Dead! is he dead? "appalled they cry. — "Itcannot,cannotbe! 
 Oh, lift him, move him, speak to him, sure he will answer thee ! " 
 But no, the child, now doubly dear, in death's embraces lay; 
 And sadly, soon his lifeless corpse, they weeping, bore away. 
 
 But pause we here. Not words of ours can tell that sorrow's 
 gloom, [doom ; 
 
 Or paint her grief, who, childless then, first heard her hopeless 
 But ah, that light, that awful night ! will ne'er forgotten be, 
 By those who witnessed its dismay, who felt its misery. 
 
 On that wild cliff from which he fell, amid the heather bells, 
 A simple monumental stone the mournful story tells ;
 
 70 
 
 Touching the tribute,* pure its tone; its heavenly warnings hear, 
 And give for life, so early closed, the sympathising tear. 
 
 THE UKDEKCLIFF. 
 
 •' Such miles as are not to be parallelled for their singularity, perhaps in the 
 whole world." — Wyndham, on the TTndercliff. 
 
 Gem of the South, sweet TTndercliff! 
 
 How beautiful thou art ! 
 Thy glories dim the gazers eye — 
 
 And touch the coldest heart ! 
 So rarely is thy landscape stored 
 
 "With sombre hues, and gay ; 
 In vain the glowing canvass strives 
 
 Thy beauties to portray ! 
 
 "What interchange of hill, and dale, 
 Of cool umbrageous groves ; 
 
 * The inscriptions are as follows : — 
 
 Erected in remembrance of a dear and only child, who was 
 
 uddenly removed into eternity by a fall from the adjacent cliff 
 
 on tjhe rocks beneath, 28th august, 1846. 
 
 E. I_. M. 
 Aged 15. 
 
 "HE COMETH FORTH 
 
 LIKE A FLOWER, AND IS 
 
 I DOWN ; HE FLEETU 
 
 W.sn AS A SHADOW AND 
 
 CONTINUETH NOT." 
 
 JESUS 
 SAID, 
 "1 AM THE RESURREC- 
 TION AND THE LIFE." 
 
 HEADER ! 
 
 " Prepare to meet 
 thy God, for thou 
 knowest not what 
 a day may bring 
 
 FORTH." 
 
 " In the midst of 
 life we are in 
 
 DEATH."
 
 
 
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 71 
 
 "With rocks upheaving in the glens, 
 
 Round which, in playful droves, 
 The wanton lambkins gamb'ling sport 
 
 Through the long summer day ; 
 "While in the shade, the sober ewes, 
 
 Escape the solar ray. 
 
 How barren wert thou, and austere, 
 
 When, severed from the land, 
 Thy masses first disjointed lay, 
 
 "Wreck-strewn upon the strand ! 
 But time has wrought a wond'rous change — 
 
 Has draped thee, and arrayed 
 "With moss, and shrub, and scented bloom, 
 
 Of every tint and shade. 
 
 Home of the rabbit, wild and free, 
 
 Home of the timid hare ; 
 Home of the crested pheasant, too, 
 
 And partridge — noble pair ! 
 Garden of Flora's loveliest flowers, 
 
 Unhurt by wintry blast ; 
 For one enduring summer day 
 
 Seems all thy year to last ! 
 
 Thy tiny church among the rocks 
 
 "Where ivy branches creep ;* 
 With flower decked graves encircling round 
 
 Where youth and manhood sleep ; 
 
 St. Lawrence., the smallest church in the Island, and probably in England. 
 It is barely six feet to the eaves, and was only twenty feet long by twelve feet 
 wide, until the Earl of Yarborough lengthened it a few feet.
 
 72 
 
 Or, farther down, thy ancient pile,* 
 Embowered beneath the grove, 
 
 Are spots, which all who boast a soul, 
 Instinctively must love ! 
 
 " Madeira Vale " and " Sunny-side " 
 
 Are names familiar here ; 
 Nor names alone, they justify 
 
 The epithets they bare. 
 " Gem of the South," sweet Undercliff ; 
 
 The beautiful is thine ! 
 Yes ! Thou hast that within thy range 
 
 No other lands combine ! 
 
 Prized is thy climate, soft and mild 
 
 Thy genial atmosphere,! 
 Prolonging life — imparting health, 
 
 To those who seek it here — 
 Who seek in time, ere fell disease 
 
 Has triumphed o'er its prey ; 
 No breath of earth, can grapple with 
 
 Consumption's sure decay. 
 
 * Bonchurch Church, or " Church of St. Boniface," of which it is the abbrevi- 
 ation, is supposed to have been built soon after the general survey at the Conquest. 
 
 t "The Island, from the variety which it presents in point of elevation, soil, 
 and aspect, and from the configuration of its hills and shores, possesses several 
 peculiarities of climate and situations, which render it a very favourable and 
 commodious residence throughout the year, for a large class of invalids. On this 
 account, the Isle of Wight claims our particular attention, as it comprehends 
 within itself advantages which are of great value to the delicate invalid, and to 
 obtain which, in almost every part of England, he would require to make a 
 considerable journey. * • * * • The TJndercliff bids fair to exceed all other 
 winter residences in this country, and the Isle of Wight will have added to its title 
 of the ' Garden of England,' that of the British Madeira."— Sir James Clarke. — 
 " Influence of Climate."
 
 73 
 
 And fitting are thy fretted cliffs, 
 
 And deep blue rolling main, 
 To point to shores, where death is not, 
 
 Where loved ones meet again ; 
 And well may parting spirits here 
 
 Long for that blest abode, 
 "Where sin is not, where thought is pure- 
 
 Where saints shall " meet their God." 
 
 A EEMINISCENCE OF OLD "MAY DAY" 
 IN NEWPOET. 
 
 Suggested by a lecture delivered in Newport, by John Henry Hearn, Esq., on 
 " Oar Borough Town." 
 
 The first of sweet May 
 
 "Was a notable day 
 To Newport, in days of yore ; 
 
 "When the branches green 
 
 "Were clustering seen 
 Around every householder's door ; 
 
 From the forest wide, 
 
 Where the streamlets glide, 
 They were brought ere the break of day, 
 
 All sparkling with dew ; 
 
 Oh, 'twas sweet to -view 
 Our town on the first of May !
 
 74 
 
 Yes, ere the bright sun 
 
 Had his journey begun, 
 These branches were waving on high ; 
 
 And his first beams fell, 
 
 Like a magic spell, 
 On a scene of unmingled joy. 
 
 Like Israel of old, 
 
 In the scripture told, 
 With branches their tents were arrayed ; 
 
 While the holy glee 
 
 Of their minstrelsy 
 Eang through the cooling shade. 
 
 But the fete which once reigned 
 
 Has entirely waned, 
 No bough on "May Day" the eye greets ; 
 
 But the garland suspended, 
 
 By children attended, 
 Is carried instead in our streets. 
 
 The May-pole so gay, 
 
 Has, too, passed away ; 
 No dance on the village green now ; 
 
 Thus customs of old 
 
 Are tales that are told, 
 To the march of improvement they bow.
 
 75 
 
 MOTTESTONE. 
 
 " Tinted by Time, the solitary Stone, 
 On the green hill of Mote, each storm withstood, 
 Grows dim, with hoary lichen overgrown."— Peel's " Fair Island." 
 
 Stone of many wild conjectures, 
 
 Who can tell thy history ? 
 By whose hands, and when upraised ? 
 
 Why thou should'st so massive be ? 
 Perhaps the ancient Druid legend* 
 
 Of thy use the fact supplies, — 
 "Here," it tells us, " was an altar 
 
 Where was offered sacrifice." 
 
 Groves, perchance, did once enshroud thee, 
 Where luxuriantly would grow, 
 
 On the oak's wide spreading branches, 
 Wild, the sacred mistletoe ; 
 
 Plant divine in Druid ritual, 
 Worshipped by the Celtic band ; 
 
 * " The Druids held three places sacred in the Island. " The first was the 
 western extremity thereof, where the pale cliffs totter high over the ocean, and the 
 giant rocks rear themselves like towers from the waves. In the midst of these, 
 rising tall and thin from the water, stood the sacred stone of Ur. Supposed to be 
 the Needle Rock, which fell some years ago. 
 
 "The second was on Mottestone hill, where stood the pillar of a rock, and near 
 it the wonderful Logan stone, which swung from its foundation to the summer 
 breeze; but the strength of many men could not move it. The hand of a child 
 might sway it to and fro, but it was said that if a man had guilt upon his soul, 
 though his arm might be like an arm of iron, yet would the rock remain firm like 
 the hill on which it stood. 
 
 " The third sacred place was the grove of oaks in the Hexel ground of Yar, 
 where Brading Haven now is." — " Tales and Legends of the Isle of Wight."
 
 76 
 
 But this stone alone remaineth, — 
 Passed its record from the land. 
 
 Fancy boldly plumes her pinions, 
 
 Pictures of the past to raise ; 
 Of the fearful invocations, 
 
 Here sent up in prayerful phrase ; 
 Aged heads, with awe, uncovered ; 
 
 Princes stooping from the throne ; 
 And the mass, with holy fervour, 
 
 Chaj/nting here, with solemn tone. 
 
 Ancient landmark ! huge and hoary ! 
 
 In thy desolate array ; 
 Silent, thou may'st raise a story 
 
 Of some long passed olden day ; 
 Mid the far more pleasing objects, 
 
 Time has spared our lovely Isle, 
 Thou dost claim a passing comment — 
 
 Thou an hour may well beguile ! 
 
 VICTOEIA'S ISLAND HOME. 
 
 " O thou fair Isle ! the charms of nature still 
 Are fresh upon thee." — Atkins. 
 
 Victoria's Rest, so tranquil ! 
 
 "Within her " Garden Isle," 
 No pageantry to trammel 
 
 Is known in Osborne's pile.
 
 77 
 
 For here, for life's sweet solace 
 Our noble Queen doth come ; 
 
 Her palaces rise elsewhere, 
 But Osborne is her home. 
 
 Yes, here our gracious Sovereign 
 
 Throws off the pomp of state, 
 And all the courtly shackles, 
 
 Of sceptred life the fate ; 
 Finds quiet rural pleasures, 
 
 And can at freedom roam ; 
 Her palaces are elsewhere, 
 
 But Osborne is her home. 
 
 "Within its happy precincts 
 
 Domestic love is 'throned; 
 And nature's obligations 
 
 Are paramount and owned. 
 The mother's love is blessed, 
 
 Her children with her roam ; 
 Their palaces are elsewhere, 
 
 But Osborne is their home. 
 
 Yes, in her halls ancestral 
 
 The monarch may be seen ; 
 But here we view with pleasure 
 
 The mother in the Queen. 
 And here the Royal offspring 
 
 Fair nature's beauties own; 
 Their palaces are elsewhere, 
 
 But Osborne is their home.
 
 78 
 
 Oh, would that every homestead 
 
 Such real enjoyment knew ! 
 How many might possess it, 
 
 Though known, alas, to few. 
 How many hearts' affections 
 
 To other objects roam ; 
 Nor taste that sweetest blessing, 
 
 The dear delights of home. 
 
 Long may our Queen, fair Osborne, 
 
 Find strength renewed in thee ; 
 Here, with her Royal children, 
 
 Rove happy, blithe, and free. 
 Be peace, serene, thy portion, 
 
 Thine own, and never roam ; 
 Victoria's choice, we hail thee ! 
 
 Victoria's Garden Home ! 
 
 THE "WISHING WELL," ON ST. 
 BONIFACE DOWN.* 
 
 " Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told, 
 Could once so well my answ'ring bosom pierce ; 
 Proceed, in forceful sounds and colour bold, 
 The native legends of thy land rehearse."— Collins. 
 
 How rich in legendary lore, 
 Is Vecta's wild, romantic shore — 
 Old England's garden fair ; 
 
 * The legend connected with this Well is as follows :— " Whatever a person 
 who has reached the spot without once looking back, wishes for, while drinking the 
 water of the Well, he is sure to have."
 
 79 
 
 Linked with the past, her pleasant tales, 
 Combined to make its hills and vales 
 A magic interest wear. 
 
 With pleasure I have oft been told 
 About her Wishing Well of old, 
 
 Which anxious footsteps found, 
 High above Bonehurch sylvan shades, 
 And where St. Boniface cascades 
 
 With music sweet resound. 
 
 Its name it still retains, although 
 Its magic waters cease to flow, 
 
 And dried its crystal stream ; 
 No mantling verdure now appears, 
 The bright green spot of former years, 
 
 Has faded like a dream. 
 
 In byegone days, here numbers came, 
 Or blushing lass, or ancient dame, 
 
 To profit by its spell ; 
 Here bent the knee, devoutly prayed, 
 Breathed out their wish, their offering made, 
 
 Before the Wishing Well ; 
 
 Assured, in earnest faith, that they 
 Would, in some hidden mystic way, 
 
 Be speedily relieved. 
 But disoppointment sad, I trow, 
 'Twas oft their hapless fate to know, 
 
 By fickle hearts deceived.
 
 80 
 
 When last its waters clear were tried, 
 Or what fair girl before it sighed, 
 
 To query now were vain ; 
 Sere barrenness now marks the site, 
 Which once was hailed by anxious wight, 
 
 Or thoughtless, giddy train. 
 
 But Fancy's sceptre claims the place, 
 Nor would its fairy tale efface ; 
 
 For legends have a spell, 
 And though all airy they may be, 
 I would not part with them, nor thee, 
 
 Thou fairy Wishing Well ! 
 
 YECTA. 
 
 " Gem of the silver sea, Britannia's Isle, 
 Where generous nature wears a genial smile." — Matthews. 
 
 'Tis said that our loved Vecta's Isle 
 
 Was not an Isle of yore ; 
 But that it was by isthmus linked 
 
 To England's neighbouring shore.* 
 
 * " The Isle of Wight, which, as late as the eighth century, was separated from 
 the remainder of Hampshire by a channel no less than three miles in breadth, was 
 once actually a part of the greater island, disjointed from it only by the tide, and 
 united to it always at the ebb. And during the recess of the waters, the Britons 
 constantly passed over the low isthmus of land, and carried their loaded carts of tin 
 across it."— Whitaker's "History of Manchester."
 
 ' 
 
 81 
 
 This may be true ; what boots it now ? 
 
 Now, 'tis an Island fair, 
 And many seek its smiling coasts, 
 
 Its benefits to share. 
 
 "When Spring unlocks sweet nature's store, 
 
 And opens up; her joys, 
 Then Vecta, with her varied charms, 
 
 The traveller soon decoys ; 
 The " sunny south" allures him then, 
 
 "Where scarcely frosts are known ; 
 And where, ere spring her sceptre sways, 
 
 The fragrant rose has blown. 
 
 WTien Summer comes, and strews her flowers 
 
 To catch the solar rays, 
 Then, 'neath the cool ambrosial groves, 
 
 In happy mood he strays ; 
 Or on the beach at ease reclines, 
 
 The sea breeze to inhale ; 
 Or plies the waters deep and blue, 
 
 To catch the pleasant gale. 
 
 When Autumn scatters plenty round, 
 
 With outstretched liberal hand, 
 Then doth he list the mirthful song 
 
 Of many a reaping band ; 
 Or gathers from the garden wall 
 
 The ripe grapes pendant there ; 
 Or shakes from orchard's clustering trees 
 
 The golden fruits they bear.
 
 82 
 
 Our Winters, too, have their delights, 
 
 If sportsman he should be ; 
 For we have game to invite the chase 
 
 O'er hill and spreading lea. 
 Or if of studious turn of mind, 
 
 Xo lack of food is there ; 
 Our Institution's well stored shelves 
 
 Would yield him goodly fare. 
 
 Thus Vecta meets each hope and wish 
 
 The traveller might conceive, 
 And longs more largely to impart 
 
 The joys she has to give, 
 Beyond the artificial show 
 
 And meretricious glare 
 Of crowded city's ceaseless din, 
 
 And smoke-dimmed mirky air. 
 
 THE NEEDLE EOCKS. 
 
 " Where Ocean frets beneath the dashing oar 
 And parting surges round the huge rocks roar."— Gran, 
 
 ]Soble group of Rocks ! uprising 
 
 From the Solent's rough strewn strand ; 
 
 Like a fortress in the channel, 
 Thou, its waters dost command ; 
 
 Famous in our Island's story, 
 
 For thy tempest, wave- worn mien
 
 b)
 
 83 
 
 Noble group ! "Who can forget thee — 
 Who thy massive form hath seen ? 
 
 . Prostrate now the slender column 
 
 Which gave thee thy mimic name ; 
 Long it braved the angry billows, 
 
 Till its basement strength was vain j 
 Undermined by constant washing, 
 
 With a most terriffic roar, 
 In the mighty depths it floundered, 
 
 Ne'er to be uplifted more !* 
 
 Pleased we view the noble Lighthouse 
 
 Brightly beaming o'er thy crest ; 
 Glimmering on the waste of waters, 
 
 When the sun has sunk to rest. 
 0, it gives a cordial welcome, 
 
 From its elevated site ; 
 And, like hope in human bosoms, 
 
 Brightest seems in darkest night 
 
 How the cormorants, fluttering round thee, 
 
 Utter forth their piercing cries ! 
 How the ocean heaves around thee ! 
 
 How its foam all o'er thee flies ! 
 Dark and dismal, when tempestuous 
 
 Hollow winds about thee blow ; 
 And the yawning billows threaten 
 
 In their rage to lay thee low ! 
 
 • This "was undermined and fell down with a prodigious crash about the 
 year L764, and is now totally lost, being upward of 130 feet high when it was 
 standing."— Albin's " Isle of Wight."
 
 84 
 
 But anon, how changed the aspect, 
 
 When the sun, with gladdening smile, 
 Shines in all his bright effulgence 
 
 Gilding o'er sweet Vecta's Isle ; 
 "When the little wavelets, rippling, 
 
 Kiss thy feet, with playful sound ; 
 And a fairy prospect opens, 
 
 To the vision all around. 
 
 Bunt seems ready to salute thee, 
 
 Stretching o'er the narrow sea ; 
 And the gala steamer passing, 
 
 Cuts the foam right gallantly ! 
 Sounds harmonious thence proceeding, 
 
 Fall upon the listening ear ; 
 And, as if in gladsome chorus, 
 
 Comes the hearty, merry cheer. 
 
 O'er the sunlit, placid waters, 
 
 Many a happy party glides ; 
 Steered with caution by the boatman, 
 
 On, the graceful wherry rides. 
 Hark ! those cheerful sounds, and laughter, 
 
 Well proclaim how great their joy 
 Pleasant pastime — jocund, healthful, 
 
 Summer evening's sweet employ. 
 
 Tell me not of Eastern glories — 
 
 Tell me not of Western pride ! 
 When sweet Vecta spreads before me, 
 
 Beauteous prospects far and wide ! 
 
 i
 
 85 
 
 Contrasts fine she intermingles ; 
 
 Sloping downs her seas command ; 
 And her Needle Rocks, uprising, 
 
 Guard the Solent's rough strewn strand ! 
 
 MY ISLAND OCEAN STEAND. 
 
 1 How awful, how sublime the view !" 
 
 I oft have been there when the billows have swelled, 
 And its waves have run mountainous high ; 
 
 "When the Avinds in their fury have fearfully yelled, 
 And the lightnings have flit through the sky. 
 
 I oft have been there in the dead of the night, 
 When darkness has covered the strand ; 
 
 No sound save the waves ; not a glimmer of light, 
 Save from cottages far on the land. 
 
 I oft have been there when the sun has shone bright, 
 
 And its waters in quiet have lain ; 
 When the sea-fowls forsaking the rock's rugged height.. 
 
 Have been skimming the face of the main. 
 
 I oft have been there, and with joy have surveyed 
 
 The sun from its bosom arise, 
 Rejoicing in strength, and in glory arrayed, 
 
 His path to pursue through the skies.
 
 86 
 
 I oft have been there when his race he has run, 
 And have seen him when sinking to rest ; 
 
 What a voice for the spirit ! that fine setting sun, 
 In matchless magnificence dressed. 
 
 And always, when pacing the ocean's wide strand, 
 This thought has been present with me ; — 
 
 "What less than a mighty Omnipotent hand 
 Can control the vast fathomless sea!" 
 
 THE VILLAGE GKEEN.* 
 
 " The proud city's gay wealthy train, 
 
 Who nought but refinement adore, 
 May wonder to hear me complain 
 
 That our sweet village green is no more; 
 But if to the church you e'er went, 
 
 If you knew what the village has been, 
 You will sympathize when I lament 
 
 The loss of our sweet village green. — W. Bloomfield. 
 
 The village green ! The village green ! 
 
 It is passing fast away ; 
 Those sweet resting spots, which intervene 
 
 Between the rude hamlets gray; 
 
 » It must surely be lamented that the utilitarian spirit of the age, has occasioned 
 many of these ancient and interesting spots to l>e enclosed, in various parts of our 
 Island. Surely, the gain to the landowner can be but little; while the loss to the 
 villagers is great.
 
 87 
 
 "Where the hoary head, and the buxom lass, 
 
 And the villagers, blithe and gay, 
 Were wont to meet, and pleasantly pass, 
 
 Summer's evening hours away. 
 
 The village green ! The village green ! 
 
 It is passing fast away ; 
 No more shall the May-pole dance, I ween 
 
 There, be led by the " Queen of May;" 
 No more shall young urchins there resort, 
 
 "When the hours of school are o'er, 
 To engage in their happy, rural sport, 
 
 As they did in days of yore. 
 
 The village green ! The village green ! 
 
 It is passing fast away ; 
 Now the youthful bands in the lanes are seen, 
 
 Enjoying their harmless play. 
 0, why should these spots, to memory dear, 
 
 Be reft from the sons of toil, 
 To swell the rent-roll of the lordling near, 
 
 "With gold he may draw from the soil ? 
 
 The village green ! The village green ! 
 
 It is passing fast away ; 
 O'er many have now th' rough plough-shares been, 
 
 And the reapers, glad and gay ; 
 Yet in memory fond, they linger yet, 
 
 Bright spots where we oft have been ; 
 And the harmless sport we will not forget, 
 
 On the verdant village green !
 
 88 
 
 THE " YOUNG COTTAGEE'S" COTTAGE, 
 
 BEADING. 
 
 " Her dwelling was of the humblest kind. It stood against a high bank of 
 earth, which formed a sort of garden behind it. The ftont aspect of the cottage 
 was chiefly rendered pleasing by a honeysuckle, which luxuriantly climbed up the 
 wall, enclosing the door, windows, and even the chimney, with its twining 
 branches." — Richmond's "Annals of the Poor." 
 
 How many times, in childish glee, 
 
 The humble cot I passed, 
 Where "Little Jane" first saw the light, 
 
 And where she breathed her last ; 
 A stranger to her history, 
 
 But thoughtless glance I cast. 
 
 But when within my hand was placed 
 Legh Richmond? 's lovely tale ; 
 
 It kindled my intense delight, 
 Nor did its interest fail ; 
 
 So sweet the picture which he drew, 
 Of one so young and frail. 
 
 But then I felt not the pure love 
 Which makes our spirits one — 
 
 God had not in my deathless soul 
 Bevealed His precious Son — 
 
 To love the Saviour's blessed name, 
 I had not yet begun. 
 
 But Calvary's cross — its thrilling power, 
 Aroused my dormant soul ;
 
 89 
 
 For thence the Saviour seemed to speak, 
 
 And every thought control ; 
 And then I yearned to follow Him, 
 
 And in His strength " be whole." 
 
 And grateful thanked my God for grace, 
 
 Unmerited and free ; 
 To trace its power where'er it wrought, 
 
 Was happiness to me ; 
 And then, with what expanded thoughts, 
 
 I read Jane's history ! 
 
 The pleasing sketches it contained 
 
 Of Nature's lovely face, 
 Which Richmond? s master pencil knew 
 
 So vividly to trace, 
 Were all absorbed in that one theme — 
 
 God's all-abounding grace. 
 
 It shone so brightly, true, and real, 
 
 In Jane's quick finished course, 
 And pointed with such constant aim 
 
 To Jesus as its source ; 
 My soul was melted by its power — 
 
 I felt its gentle force. 
 
 Her name had charms, unknown before, 
 
 And e'en her thatched abode, 
 Was linked with thoughts of sovereign grace, 
 
 And raised my soul to God — 
 Who draws His erring children homo 
 
 By Jesus' precious blood.
 
 90 
 
 How often from that lowly cot 
 
 Did incense sweet ascend ! 
 How often there was breathed the name 
 
 Of Christ, the sinner's Friend — 
 How often there, the lowly knee, 
 
 Did in communion bend ! 
 
 What wonder, then, that now I pause 
 
 Before that cottage home ; 
 And on the wings of memory 
 
 'Mid scenes departed, roam — 
 And, looking onward, dwell with joy 
 
 On brighter scenes to come ! 
 
 Shall poets shed a halo o'er 
 
 The spots where they were bora r 
 
 Shall warriors, too, immortalize 
 The vestments they have worn ? 
 
 Yes ; for the world will love its own 
 Nor of their fame be shorn ! 
 
 But rather let r me love to trace 
 
 The ways of God below ; 
 And pleasure take in that which gives 
 
 Our souls His love to know,— 
 May this sweet occupation make 
 
 My heart with rapture glow ! 
 
 Farewell! dear cot — thy " Little Jane " 
 Lies on her Saviour's breast ; 
 
 And knows, what ne'er in thee she knew, 
 Uninterrupted rest ; 
 
 May many more exchange for thee, 
 The mansions of the blest.
 
 91 
 
 PARKHURST PRISON.* 
 
 In part the buildings onee forming the Hospital, attached to the neighbouring 
 
 Parkhurst ! how altered in thy bearing, thou, 
 
 Since from an Hospital a Prison made ; 
 Massive and strong, escape defying now, 
 
 Daring indeed, who would thy watch invade. 
 
 Then physical disease in thee was healed, 
 Novo young offenders are reclaimed from sin ; 
 
 Philanthrophy has here a chosen field, — 
 But we will ring the bell and enter in. 
 
 See there that group of boys in prison dress, 
 With vice depicted in each brazen brow ; 
 
 Young still in years, but old in lawlessness — 
 Kindness has failed, as yet, their wills to bow. 
 
 Behold that other group, mayhap you find 
 
 The lineaments of reclamation there ; 
 Not obdurate and steeled ; they speak a mind 
 
 Which may ere long 9ome fruit of goodness bear. 
 
 • The establishment at Parkhurst was commenced in the year 1838. It is 
 situated nearly in the centre of the Island, about a mile and a half from Newport. 
 It presents, altogether, an imposing appearance; and a portion of the buildings 
 being placed upon a rising ground, it is visible for several miles round. The 
 original building formed the hospital for the adjacent barracks, and was altered 
 for occupation as a prison in the year above mentioned. In 1843 some extensive 
 additions wore commenced, including a chapel, probationary-ward, am! residences 
 for the schoolmasters, warders, and others connected with the prison, at a cost of 
 about £30,000. 
 
 In the summer of 1815, the Queen visited the prisons, with her suite ; and 
 Her Majesty was graciously pleased to pardon, in person, two of the prisoners, 
 one from each division of the establishment.
 
 92 
 
 From whence have all these youths — these children come ? 
 
 Could we but ask them of their sad career, 
 Many, alas ! would, pointing to their home, 
 
 Cry, " Sin's first lessons were imparted there." 
 
 Far better than such homes, Parkhurst, art thou, 
 "Where each one to his bent his calling takes ; 
 
 Where discipline may make the culprit bow ; — 
 Where rule benign, alone the prison makes. 
 
 Go round the wards, — what nicest order reigns ; 
 
 Visit the cells, — how clean and neat they are ; 
 The schools, — what witness to their master's pains ; 
 
 The shops, — what strength and talent meet you there. 
 
 Would that each youth such kindness would repay ! 
 
 Would gladly cultivate the moral seeds ; 
 That so, in future years, he nobly may, 
 
 Retrieve his character, by upright deeds. 
 
 Heaven grant they may : nor suffer crime to be 
 Through life's long vista an enduring bane ; 
 
 Is it alone the body can go free — 
 
 Must spirit always wear its galling chain ? 
 
 Experience answers " iVo /" for many a lad 
 
 Gone from the prison into other lands, 
 There gains respect, and is with honour clad — 
 
 For worth, be where it may, respect commands.
 
 93 
 
 Honour to those,* by whose exertions, thou, 
 Parhhurst wast given for our erring youth ; 
 Once herded with the hardened mass ; but now 
 ' Led in the paths of usefulness and truth. — 
 
 Honour to them ! Philanthropists indeed, 
 Delighting in achieving moral good ; 
 
 Still may their weapon bright, from error freed, — 
 Their " kindness winning " more be understood ! 
 
 THE "DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER'S" 
 COTTAGE, ARRETON. 
 
 " I dismounted, and was conducted through a neat little garden, part of 
 which was shaded by two large overspreading elm-trees, to the house. * * * The 
 little room had two windows ; a lovely prospect of hills, woods, and fields, 
 appeared through one ; the other was more than half obscured by the branches of 
 a vine which was trained across it. • * • * This, thought I, is a fit residence for 
 piety, peace, and contentment."—" Dairyman's Daughter." 
 
 Pass not heedlessly the cottage 
 Where Elizabeth was born ; 
 
 Sweet associations gather 
 
 Round it, which we may not scorn ; 
 
 * •' It is one of the claims of Lord John Russell on the gratitude of th.> 
 country, as an enlightened statesman, that he took the first effective steps towards 
 sounding the depth and extent of juvenile depravity, and of thus attempting to 
 cut off one of the most fertile and unfailing supplies of adult criminality. He 
 introduced the bill for establishing Parkhurst Prison in 1838, amongst the measures 
 then proposed for the improvement of prison discipline, remarking at the time that 
 he was not sanguine as to the reformation of adults, but anticipated that good 
 might be accomplished with youths under a certain age. The prison was opened 
 in the year 1839."— See " Morning Chronicle," August 30, 1844.
 
 94 
 
 There, was witnessed in its power, 
 What the grace of God can do ; 
 
 There was shown in all its beauty, 
 Simple, holy living, too. 
 
 Child of humble, lowly parents, 
 
 She, herself, a servant maid ; 
 Yet she lived to prove a blessing, 
 
 More than oft the rich are made ; 
 Thousands taught by her example, 
 
 Have, like her, been truly blest — 
 Making life the happy earnest 
 
 Of the future, better rest. 
 
 Sweet the rose, which, upward climbing, 
 
 Clusters o'er the old parch door ; 
 Sweet the lktle plot before it, 
 
 Eichly variegated o'er; 
 Simple, unobtrusive dwelling, 
 
 Home of one whom still we love ; 
 Though her spirit has been gathered 
 
 To the Father's home above. 
 
 Let me pause and look around me — 
 
 Every object tells of her; 
 Every object beareth witness 
 
 To her simple character : 
 Pillared mansions, in their glory, 
 
 Falling to the noble's lot, 
 Cannot boast so sweet a story, 
 
 As can e'en this humble cot !
 
 95 
 
 No ! 'tis thoughts of grace attract us — 
 
 Grace which held its empire here ; 
 'Tis this fact above all others 
 
 Stamps its lovely character ; 
 Grace ascendant — grace triumphant — •* 
 
 Grace, the gift of God, and free ; 
 Would its power were widely witnessed, 
 
 As it was, sweet cot, in thee ! 
 
 ST. CATHERINE'S HILL* 
 
 *' How joyously I climb'd, at morning- hour, 
 
 The rugged path to Cath'ritie's airy brow." — Atkins. 
 
 On yonder rising hill 
 
 A ruined tower stands ; 
 Peculiar in its structure — 
 
 A tribute it demands ; 
 'Twas ages past erected, 
 
 For purposes divine, 
 Connected with the cloister 
 
 Of famed St. Catherine. 
 
 * This is the highest spot in the Island, being 830 feet above the sea. The 
 church, of which the octagon tower are the remains, was built in the year 1323, by 
 Walter de Godyton, and was dedicated to St. Catherine. He assigned certain rents, 
 for a priest to sing mass, and to provide lights for the guidance and direction ol 
 mariners approaching the dangerous coast below, by night. Prior to the erection 
 of this church, there had been an hermitage on the same site, as is proved by the 
 following entry in the register of the diocese of Winchester: — " Walter cle Lang- 
 strell admitted to the hermitage upon Chale Down, in the Isle of Wight, on the 
 ides of October, A.D. 1312."
 
 96 
 
 Most inauspicious spot, 
 
 In winter bleak and drear ; 
 How must the howling blast 
 
 Vent its full fury here ! 
 How must the lonely friar, 
 
 Affrighted by the storm, 
 In dread suspense and fear, 
 
 Have waited for the morn ! 
 
 'Twas his to chaunt the matins — 
 
 The holy mass to say, — 
 And sing the solemn vespers, 
 
 As evening died away ; 
 Nor e'en then ceased his duty, 
 
 But through the long dark night, 
 'Twas his to watch burn brightly 
 
 The sailors welcome light. 
 
 A hermit's life devoutly 
 
 The holy friar led ; 
 Apart from human solace, 
 
 Self-doomed to eat his bread ; 
 The same outspreading prospect 
 
 He looked on day by day ; 
 The same unvaried ritual, 
 
 'Twas daily his to say. 
 
 Now, nothing but the tower, 
 Still massive in its mien, 
 
 Of all the former splendour, 
 liemaineth to be seen ;
 
 97 
 
 And seen this is most clearly, 
 For almost through the Isle, 
 
 In lofty grandeur riseth, 
 St. Catherine's ancient pile. 
 
 I oft have stood beneath it 
 
 To scan the scene around, 
 Outspread in all its beauty, 
 
 As on enchanted ground ; 
 For lovely landscapes beaming, 
 
 Alone the eye can view, 
 "While ocean's rolling billows 
 
 The strand with seaweeds strew. 
 
 YeB, passing sweet that prospect 
 
 From 'neath the ancient tower ! 
 Where Nature's lonely pilgrim 
 
 Oft whiles away the hour ; 
 Above, below, around him, 
 
 The views are richly fair ; 
 And tbese our Vecta offers 
 
 To all who seek them there. 
 
 NEWPOET HOUSE, 
 
 the town residence of the Eight Hon. Sir L. W. Holmes, Burl., now the 
 property of Francis Ptttis, Esq., Mayor of Newport. 
 
 " Full many a bower of refuge here and there 
 Dwells in the windings of the sunny shore."— Peel's "Fair Island," 
 
 My native Isle is studded, here and there, 
 
 With mansions peerless in their glowing pride ;
 
 98 
 
 Environed by the lovely and the fair, 
 
 "Where woods embower, and where cool streamlets glide, 
 And undulating grounds heave far and wide, 
 
 "With sylvan shades, and sweet ambrosial flowers — 
 Where Venus might have dwelt, or Damon sighed, 
 
 And where the Muses might have wiled the hours ; 
 Nor does my muse the meanest of them deem, 
 Proud "Newport Mouse" beside fair Lukeley's stream, 
 
 I oft have wandered with supreme delight, 
 
 Amid the varied beauties of the place ; 
 Have feasted there my fixed and ravished sight — 
 
 There tracked the features of sweet Nature's face — 
 Have pleased my senses with the untaught grace, 
 
 Of tuneful warblers piping out their glee, 
 The linnet with the throstle keeping pace, 
 
 Producing rich and varied harmony; 
 "While perched upon the hedges or the trees, 
 With feathers gently ruffled by the breeze. 
 
 Tempting it is in summer's evening ray, 
 
 Upon the margin of its lovely pond, 
 Or o'er its ornamental bridge to stray, 
 
 And watch the wheel of yonder mill go round, 
 With its incessant rumbling, splashing sound ; 
 
 And oft to catch the din of traffic near, 
 Like echoes breaking from the rising ground, 
 
 Wafted by zephyrs to the listening ear ; 
 But though so near the busy market town, 
 More distant glades would scarce contest its crown.
 
 99 
 
 Of old the seat of an enobled race,* 
 
 Whose honours have descended to the grave ; 
 
 Now other forms the noble mansion grace — 
 " Another patron now it claims to have — 
 
 And still its oaks and cedars darkly shade 
 Its verdant lawn. And o'er its waters clear 
 
 Still spread those deep blue skies that never fade ■ 
 Nature's elysium for her children here ; 
 
 Long may its charms expand, and richer grow, 
 
 And o'er it heaven's propitious breezes blow ! 
 
 THE WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 
 
 " The garden flowers are reared for few, 
 And to that few belong alone ; 
 But flowers that spring by vale or stream, 
 Each one may claim them for his own." — Frail. 
 
 I would not pluck the way-side flowers ; 
 
 They bloom so sweetly there, 
 They ask no help from human power — 
 
 They need no human care : 
 For planted by a Hand Divine, 
 
 On them Heaven's dews distil; 
 Content in rugged paths to bloom — 
 
 Their mission to fulfil. 
 
 • Prior to being the residence of Sir L. W. Holmes, Bait., it was 
 yews the seat of the Eight Honourable Lord Holmes.
 
 100 
 
 I would not pluck the way-side flowers ; 
 
 The poor have no parterres — 
 No gardens yielding choice perfumes, 
 
 And beauteous hues are theirs. 
 This is their garden, touch it not ; 
 
 But rather Him adore, 
 Who decks, with many a graceful flower, 
 
 The highways of the poor, 
 
 I would not pluck the way-side flowers ;* 
 
 Perchance the passer-by, 
 May feel the weight of gathering storms 
 
 And know not where to fly ; 
 Those flowers may tell of guardian care 
 
 By him before unknown ; 
 And, pointing to their source Divine, 
 
 May lead him to the Throne. 
 
 Then, 0, pluck not the way-side flowers ; 
 
 They deck creation round ; 
 And every spot by these impressed, 
 
 Is stamped as holy ground. 
 The flowery plot — the rosy bed — 
 
 Tbe garden bright and fair — 
 All but betoken human aid, 
 
 But these a Godly care !
 
 101 
 
 VECTA'S WELCOME TO HEE MOST 
 GKACIOUS MAJESTY, 
 
 On Her return from visiting Her Royal Laughter, the Princess Frederick of 
 Prussia. September, 1858. 
 
 Hail, Victoeia ! hail, returning 
 To thy " Garden Island " home ! 
 
 Shouts of joyous welcome greet thee, 
 Mid the ponderous cannon's boom. 
 
 Hail, Victoeia ! Vecta's Sovereign ! 
 Welcome to thy Island home ! 
 
 Dry the tears a mother's fondness 
 
 Would not, if it could, control, 
 At the bitter sense of parting 
 
 From the idol of thy soul ; — 
 At the thought — " Between us shortly 
 
 Ocean will its surges roll." 
 
 " Prussia's Hope," thy heart was leaving, 
 " England's Eldest Daughter," too ; 
 
 Proud are we, thy loyal subjects, 
 Her, enthroned in hearts, to view — 
 
 Her, who 'neath Britannia's nnili n, VoAiom/iy 
 Up to lovely woman grew. 
 
 Trust her to the fond protection 
 Of the one who says " She's mine /" 
 
 May she in the warm affections 
 Of a nation's love, recline ;
 
 102 
 
 Fondest hopes all centre in her — 
 Loving hearts around her twine. 
 
 Soon another joyous meeting, 
 May renew the fond embrace ; 
 
 Thou may'st even greet thy loved one 
 In her happy, natal place ; 
 
 There, in quiet, sweet seclusion, 
 Childhood's scenes again to trace. 
 
 Vecta, still upon her memory — * 
 Vecta, where she loved to roam, 
 
 Lingers mid the palace splendours 
 Of fair Potsdam's stately dome ; 
 
 And the scenes of princely grandeur 
 Of her now adopted home. 
 
 Hail, Victokia ! hail, returning 
 To our lovely sea-girt Isle ! 
 
 Lo, unfurled, the Royal Standard 
 Floats again o'er Osborne's pile ; 
 
 And its halls again are gladdened 
 With Victoria's gracious smile ! 
 
 "Your interesting Island, of which His Royal Highness the Prince retains 
 
 very agreeable recollections, and with which Her Royal Highness will never cease 
 
 to be connected by the most endearing associations."— Letter of H. R. //• the 
 
 ss Frederick William of Prussia to the Mayor of Newport, in answer to the 
 
 atulatory address on Her marriage.
 
 103 
 
 VECTA'S WELCOME TO HEE EOYAL 
 
 HIGHNESS THE PEINCESS WILLIAM 
 
 OF PEUSSIA. 
 
 On the occasion of her first visit to Osborne after her marriage, May, 1859. 
 
 Welcome fair Princess ! we hail thy returning 
 
 To Vecta, the " Gem of the Sea ;" 
 To hear thee, and see thee, we long have been yearning — 
 
 A welcome — fond welcome, to thee ! 
 
 Sweet Spring spreads the stores of fair Nature before thee, 
 
 And decks all thy pathway with flowers ; 
 The foliage of Osborne waves lovingly o'er tbee, 
 
 And evergreens 'circle the bowers. 
 
 The plants which in days past thy maiden hands tended, 
 
 Are blooming in brilliant array ; 
 The walks where thy fairy-like footsteps oft wended, 
 
 Are white with the blossoms of May. 
 
 The linnet still sings in the woodlands retired 
 
 Those strains thou delightest to hear ; 
 Soft strains, which, perchance, thou has often desired, 
 
 While musing on Osborne, so dear. 
 
 Again trace the scenes which thy childhood hath cherished, 
 
 Indelibly fixed on the mind ; 
 No glory has faded — no beauty has perished, 
 
 So close round thy loving heart 'twined-
 
 104 
 
 And proudly we welcome thy infant — thy child ! 
 
 And love him because he is thine ; 
 May he grow up to manhood, courageous, yet mild ; 
 
 In him may thy virtues combine. 
 
 Thy husband,* we welcome ! so noble and brave ! 
 
 No stranger to Vecta's fair strand : 
 How proudly the standard of Osborne must wave 
 
 O'er such an illustrious band ! 
 
 Our Sovereign, thy mother — her Consort, thy sire — 
 
 Can hardly give vent to their joy, 
 In embracing again their delight and desire, 
 
 Her husband, and sweet smiling boy ! 
 
 And we, who delight in our Vecta to dwell, 
 
 Would chaunt to thy honour this lay ; 
 While our bosoms with feelings of gratitude swell, 
 
 And still for our Princess would pray. 
 
 Then welcome, fair Princess ! we hail thy returning 
 
 To Vecta, the " Gem of the Sea ;" 
 To hear thee, and see thee, we long have been yearning, 
 
 A welcome, fond welcome to thee ! 
 
 • Unhappily, His Boyal Highness, on account of the disturbed state of Europe, 
 could not, as was arranged, accompany Her Royal Highness the Princess; neither 
 were we permitted to receive his infant boy.
 
 105 
 
 MY NATIVE TOWN. 
 
 From Mount Joy. 
 
 ' Man through all ages of revolving time, 
 Unchanging man, in every varying clime, 
 Deems his own land of every land the pride, 
 Beloved of heaven o'er all the world beside : 
 His home the spot of earth supremely blest, 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest."— Montgomery . 
 
 I stood upon the rising hill, 
 
 In musing, thoughtful mood — 
 With thrilling sense, he only knows, 
 
 Who hath such feelings wooed. 
 How fraught with interest that scene ! 
 
 For I was looking down, 
 With thoughts of mingling, rapid flight, 
 
 Upon my native town. 
 
 My native town ! what thrilling words, 
 
 To all who have a soul 
 Attuned to sweet domestic love — 
 
 Who own its dear control ; 
 My native town ! Thought kindling strikes 
 
 The cords of memory's powers, 
 And softened by time's distance, gives 
 
 Me back my youthful hours ! 
 
 Yes, mid that mass of crowded roofs 
 
 Which now before me lay, 
 Like one immense and shapeless pile, 
 
 I greeted first the day ;
 
 106 
 
 And there my childhood's years I spent 
 With all their hopes and fears ; 
 
 And there, midst tears and sunny smiles, 
 I grew to riper years. 
 
 In childhood's hours, that narrow bound 
 
 Was all the world I knew ; 
 Nor dreamed I there was aught beside 
 
 But that which I could view ; 
 My home was there, and kindred dear, 
 
 What more could I desire ? 
 But soon expanding knowledge came, 
 
 And bade me more aspire. 
 
 Yet still confined within the Isle, 
 
 My native Isle, so dear t 
 I loved to roam o'er hill and dale, 
 
 And meadow, far and near; 
 Nor wished I for a larger range, 
 
 Or other sights to see, 
 The sea-girt spot, sweet Vecta's Isle, 
 
 Was all the world to me. 
 
 Long, long those days are passed away — 
 
 Those days of youthful joy ; 
 And now my spirit panteth hard, 
 
 For more sublime employ ; 
 The world too small for my desires, 
 
 Its scenes for me too mean, 
 I thirst for more than tongue can tell — 
 
 For more than eve hath seen !
 
 107 
 
 How marvellous the mind of man ! 
 
 How vast its high desires ! 
 Soaring aloft above the skies, 
 
 With speed which never tires ! 
 Delving below the earth's remains, 
 
 Its secrets to explore, 
 As if 'twould scan the universe 
 
 In quest of something more ! 
 
 But there are bounds to mental range, 
 
 Though where, we cannot tell, — 
 Bounds, like the cliffs which guard our coast 
 
 From ocean's mighty swell ; 
 How strange! that once my island home 
 
 Was all the world to me, 
 And now, but like a tiny drop, 
 
 In Ocean's boundless sea ! 
 
 Yet still it is the place I love, 
 
 The nursery of my mind ; 
 Where to call home each nobler thought 
 
 All things around combined. 
 My native town ! My Island home ! 
 
 Now dear art thou to me ; 
 How well I love from this sweet hill 
 
 To stand and gaze on thee !
 
 108 
 
 THE CLOUDS. 
 
 " The white rolPd clouds in clusters driven, 
 And all the glorious pageantry of heaven."— Bloomfield. 
 
 Floating aloft in the azure sky, 
 
 Hither ye come, and thither ye fly ; 
 
 Gilding yourself with imposing pride 
 
 Blushing anon like a bashful bride ; 
 
 Then in brilliant colours all arrayed 
 
 Like the rainbow's arch in the heavens pourtrayetL 
 
 Oft with a frowning and threatening mien, 
 Ere the storm descend in rage, you are seen ; 
 And your eyes shoot fires of vengeance down, 
 And your voicegf. .. other voices drown ; 
 With a deluge force your drops descend, 
 And your tempestgthe sturdy oak trees rend I 
 
 And now like the mountains huge and hoary. 
 And then like a monarch all robed in glory ; 
 Oft like the cliffs of my beautiful isle, 
 Then wearing a placid vernal smile j 
 Now like the sheen of a fairy hall, 
 Then rearing your craggy turrets talk 
 
 Or like the main, which at peace we behold 
 With its distant horison all fringed with gold, 
 And its gentle heavings to and fro, 
 And its white-rimmed breakers murmuring low,. 
 And its wavelets kissing the teeming land, 
 Are your gentle breathings on its strand.
 
 109 
 
 Beautiful clouds ! suspended high, 
 
 Your voice is of worlds above the sky ; 
 
 Still in your glory float along, 
 
 Cheered by the notes of the lark's glad song ; 
 
 Bright in the glow of the solar rays, — 
 
 Yours is a glory to lift our praise ! 
 
 SUMMEK'S EVENING. 
 
 •' I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse 
 'Till through my soul shall peace her balm infuse, 
 And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear." — H. K. White. 
 
 The noise and bustle of the town 'disturb 
 Me painfully. Its turmoil will I leave 
 With joy, and wend my wandering steps away 
 To places where sweet quiet reigns ; where noise 
 Is hushed, save song of feathered choristers ; 
 Where the distracting bustle which attends, 
 And follows in the train of enterprise 
 And speculation, never comes ; but where 
 Nature in all her simple loveliness 
 Reigns the sole mistress of the sjdvan scene. 
 
 'Tis sweet to leave the town at eventide ! 
 'Tis sweet to quit the place where nought but trade 
 Engrosses thought ; where men of business toil 
 From dawn of day, 'till sable— mantled night, 
 Vainly expecting at some future day, 
 Perchance, when evening o'er their waning life
 
 110 
 
 Shall spread its deepening shadows, to possess 
 
 What all their life they struggled to obtain — 
 
 Enough ! • Vain thought ! it never has been gained. 
 
 Death fells its victim often in the act 
 
 Of adding to their stores the last amount ; 
 
 Then whose shall be the wealth they have acquired ? 
 
 There let them toil ! My free born soul disdains 
 To be a slave for chance of future joy ! 
 Nature unfolds her charms for me, e'en now : 
 And now I'll quaff her cup of happiness ! 
 During the day my calling I pursue, 
 That I may all things honestly provide j 
 And now to breezy heath, or flowery mead. 
 Retired glen, or cool meandering stream, 
 Or shady grove, or thickly mantled wood, 
 I haste, in contemplation there to steep 
 My soul in sweet forge tfulness of toil, 
 Converse with nature, and through her ascend 
 And muse on immortality and Heaven. 
 
 Nature a finger has, — it points to God, — 
 God is impress'd on everything I see. 
 E'en as the earthly potentate is stamp' d 
 Upon the current coin of every realm, 
 So does the leaf, tbe blade, the fragrant flower, 
 (God's gift to nature to increase its store) 
 Bear the sweet impress of its Euler — God ! 
 
 Sure he has never — or has falsely, read 
 The book of nature's fair typography, 
 Who sees not God in each succeeding page, 
 Which every day and every season turns. 
 Yet many souls too callous are to love
 
 Ill 
 
 This sacred book as coming from their God, 
 And if they send admiring thoughts abroad 
 Feel, and see little, to excite their praise. 
 In a more fervent gaze, warm hearts indulge, 
 And with a deep-felt pleasure are repaid ; 
 Others there are of ardent temperament 
 Who fitfully at nature's beauty gaze — 
 Care little for her — love her but in part ; 
 But be it mine, in each succeeding day 
 To make it all my own — its freshness mine — 
 And scahn'd thus daily, to adore Him more, 
 The wond^rous author, of this wond^rous wcrlrl 
 
 0, boundless Sovereign ! Universal Lord ! 
 How poor is man, compar'd with all around — 
 Corapar'd with Thee, a moth before the wind ! 
 Like as the verdant grass, which sweetly clothes, 
 As with a vest, this mount on which I tread, 
 Man's life is transient — Thou, unchanging art ! 
 See there the stream which yonder speeds its course 
 On to the ocean, there itself to lose, — 
 Man is the stream, and Thou the boundless sea I 
 Like as the pearly drops of dew, dispersed 
 By yon resplendent orb's meridian ray, 
 Man passes from this scene — Thou passest not, 
 Thou great, ineffable, Eternal One ! 
 
 I muse on Thine infinitude — Thy love ; 
 On that blest love which passeth human thought ! 
 Not only did'st Thou make, in love, the world, 
 But gav'st Thy Son, the Saviour, to redeem 
 And draw its erring peoples to Thyself, 
 what amazing cost ! Thought stands aghast
 
 112 
 
 And wonders at the great redemption plan ! 
 And -well it might, since angels, " who excel 
 In strength," in wondering admiration stand, 
 O'erwhelmed that Deity could stoop so low ! 
 
 that in strains becoming I could praise 
 Thy deep, unsearchable, exhaustless love ! 
 
 Yet 'tis a thought which greatly cheers my heart, 
 
 1 shall, ere long, in nobler, brighter worlds. 
 
 A " little while," at most, and glorious scenes 
 Surpassing these I view, or could on earth 
 Survey, shall greet my eyes — all dimness gone ! 
 A "little while " and this poor stammering tongue 
 Shall be unloosed, to sing Thy worthy praise ! 
 A " little while " at most, and I shall see 
 As I am seen, and know as I am known ; 
 I'll wait with patience till the mandate comes 
 That bids me quit these sylvan scenes for — Heaven ! 
 
 HAPPY HOUBS. 
 
 1 The scene is o'er— still seasons onward roll, 
 And each revolve conducts me toward the gaol, 
 And the tried soul, now led by thoughts sublime, 
 Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time."— if. K. White. 
 
 Often have I heaved a sigh 
 For the happy hours gone by ; 
 When I rambled far and near, 
 With companions loved and dear ; 
 Care nor grief nor pain was ours — 
 They were happy, happy hours.
 
 113 
 
 Then so often did we roam 
 To the woods, they seemed our home ; 
 Every tree we knew full well ; 
 Oak, or elm, or birch, could tell ; 
 Knew where grew the forest flowers : 
 Those were happy, happy hours ! 
 
 Where the wavelets lave our Isle 
 
 We would go to roam awhile ; 
 
 Or upon the ocean sail ; 
 
 Or the beetling cliffs would scale ; 
 
 Or on rock, which heavenward towers, 
 
 Pass the happy, happy hours. 
 
 On the heatb, and on the downs, 
 Where the streamlet rippling sounds ; 
 'Neath the Castle's hoary walls, 
 Through its lone deserted halls — 
 Downs, and streams, and crumbling towers, 
 Whiled away the happy hours ! 
 
 Or when winter's dreary blast 
 Held us in the homestead fast ; 
 Round the cheerful hearth would meet, 
 Heedless of the snow or sleet ; 
 Where no chilling gloom e'er lowers, 
 Sacred to the happy hours ! 
 
 But my childhood's dream is past ! 
 Its illusions cannot last ! 
 Cares absorbing now perplex ; 
 Troubles the worn spirit vex ; 
 i
 
 114 
 
 How consuming time devours 
 Man's few fleeting, happy hours ! 
 
 Yet amid the darkened scene, 
 Brighter spots oft intervene ; 
 But they spring not from the earth, 
 Gems they are of nobler birth ; 
 Joys my Heavenly Father showers, 
 Now compose my happy hours. 
 
 Happier, yes, and deeper, too, 
 Than my thoughtless childhood knew : 
 Joys substantial and divine, 
 Flowing from His love are mine ! 
 Though on earth the dark storm lowers, 
 Heaven affords me happy hours ! 
 
 Yes ! that stream will ever flow 
 
 To refresh me here below : 
 
 Yes ! 'twill guide me while I roam — 
 
 Lead my weary footsteps home — 
 
 Give me strength o'er hurtful powers — 
 
 Yield me happy, happy hours ! 
 
 Then no longer will I sigh 
 For the happy hours gone by ; 
 But aspire, while here I roam, 
 To far brighter hours to come, 
 "When in Heaven's celestial bowers, 
 Nought I know but happy hours !
 
 115 
 
 THE INVOCATION. 
 
 Sweet Summer, quickly appear, 
 
 Revisit our valleys and hills ; 
 Drive Winter, cold, barren and drear, 
 
 Away from our meadows and rills ; 
 I long to behold thee arrayed 
 
 In all thy bright colours anew ; 
 I long to revisit the glade 
 
 Where the primrose and violet grew ; 
 I long to behold the buds burst 
 
 And bring forth their flowers again ; 
 I anxiously watched for the first, — 
 
 haste with thy flowery train ! 
 The delicate snowdrop has blown, 
 
 An earnest of what is to be, 
 When thou hast ascended thy throne 
 
 And Winter gives place unto thee. 
 I long to revisit the bower, 
 
 Near which the hoarse cataracts bound, 
 Where in many a warm Summer's hour 
 
 1 have rest and retirement found. 
 The woodbine its verdure has lost, 
 
 The sweet honeysuckle is bare, 
 No leaf can the jessamine boast, 
 
 Nor odour to perfume the air. 
 How sweet ! when again I can roam 
 
 Unencumbered, for fear of the shower; 
 When far I can wander from home, 
 
 To the meadow, the copse, and — the bower !
 
 116 
 
 Summer, thy mantle let fall 
 Upon the sweet landscape again ; 
 
 And with thee, fair Flora I call 
 
 Assuming her sceptre, to reign. 
 The blackbird your coming will hail ; 
 
 The linnet will usher you in ; 
 The cuckoo will sing in the vale ; 
 
 The lark will its chorus begin. 
 And numberless voices all day 
 
 Shall chant to your honour and praise ; 
 And night shall while sweetly away . 
 
 "With Philomel's beautiful lays. 
 Nor will I my tribute withhold, 
 
 My lips shall thy glories record ; 
 
 1 will sing of your pleasures untold — 
 
 I will praise your Creator — the Lord. 
 He form'd you so lovely and bright, 
 
 He clad you in beauteous array, 
 He gives you to yield us delight 
 
 As 'mid your sweet beauties we stray. 
 How good ! how beneficent, He ! 
 
 How gracious to all our desires ! 
 Indulgent Creator, to Thee, 
 
 My spirit in worship aspires ! 
 Through Jesus, the Son of thy love, 
 
 My praises, though feeble receive; 
 And may mine be the summers above 
 
 "When earth's fleeting summers I leave !
 
 117 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE? 
 
 "The life is more than meat, and the body is more than raiment." 
 
 What is life ? 'tis more than feasting : 
 Beasts, they eat what nature gives ; 
 
 Man was made for nobler purpose, 
 For far higher ends he lives. 
 
 What is life ? 'tis more than raiment : 
 Flowers which fade adorn' d we see ; 
 
 Nature gives the brute its clothing 
 Though it soon will cease to be. 
 
 What is life ? 'tis more than breathing : 
 
 All creation breathes around ; 
 Breathes and dies ; but man, immortal ! 
 
 His existence knows no bound. 
 
 What is life ? 'tis thinking — doing, 
 
 'Tis no mid- day reverie ; 
 Life is power, and time is treasure ! 
 
 'Tis a glorious thing to be! 
 
 Life ia earnest, constant seeking 
 
 To be useful, to be true ; 
 Through sophistic trammels breaking — 
 
 Goodness striving to pursue. 
 
 'Tis to be as holy angels, 
 Ever bent on pure employ ;
 
 118 
 
 Messengers of love and mercy, 
 Ever seeking others' joy. 
 
 This is life ; who then is living, 
 
 In this busy bustling age ? 
 Pause, and ask thyself the question ! 
 
 Thus let self thy thoughts engage — 
 
 Do /live, — or am /only 
 As a cumberer of the ground — 
 
 All for self my earth-bound yearning- 
 All for self life's daily round? 
 
 Hear, my soul, thy glorious calling ! 
 
 To the winds thy dreamings give ! 
 Nerve thee for life's holy duties ! 
 
 Strive thyself to nobly live ! 
 
 THE EAELY HOUB. 
 
 " Beams of the day-break faint ! I hail ! 
 I hail the streaks of morn divine." — II. K. White. 
 
 Lovely does tho sun arise, 
 And with beauty paints the skies ; 
 Gilds the dawning landscape, too,- 
 Sparkles in sweet drops of dew. 
 
 Challenged by the glowing east, 
 Philomel her strain has ceased ;
 
 119 
 
 And, around, the flowerets gay, 
 Open to the eye of day. 
 
 Now, the lark ascends on high 
 Pouring forth its melody : 
 Sailing in the ambient air, 
 Happy, happy chorister ! 
 
 Like the lark, I early, too, 
 Praise would bring, my praise how due 
 Like the lark, I too, would soar, 
 Sing and praise for evermore ! 
 
 Hark ! the tinkling sheep-bell sounds, 
 Coming from the distant downs ; 
 Where the woolly lambkins play, 
 Where the sportful ponies neigh. 
 
 Nature smiles in glad repose, 
 And the zephyr gently blows, 
 Bearing sweets from every flower, — 
 How I love the early hour ! 
 
 DOWN m THE MEADOWS. 
 
 (A Canzonet.) 
 
 Down in the meadows the linnets are singing ; 
 And the gay perfumed train of fair Flora is springing ; 
 And the grasshopper chirps in its hey-day of glee, — 
 come, let us go the sweet meadows to see !
 
 120 
 
 Down in the meadows the lambkins are skipping ; 
 
 And the hawthorns with bright pearly dew-drops are dripping, 
 
 And the courser is roaming untrammelled and free, — 
 
 come, let us go the sweet meadows to see ! 
 
 I>own in the meadows the children are playing ; 
 Their thirst for the pleasures of nature allaying ; 
 come, let us join in their gambols and glee — 
 Come, come, let us haste in the meadows to be ! 
 
 And there we will sport in the sunshine and shade ; 
 Hard by we will rest in the soft verdant glade ; 
 And when night her soft mantle around us has strewn 
 Ah, then we will dance by the light of the moon ! 
 
 "THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS." 
 
 Suggested by a visit to the tomb of the Rev. W. Adams, M.A., at Bonchiirch, Author 
 of the "Shadow of the Cross," $c, $c. 
 
 Beneath the "Shadow of the Cross," 
 
 Near to the ancient fane, 
 He sleeps the silent sleep of death, 
 
 Beyond the reach of pain ; 
 He sleeps, who only lived to prove 
 
 How noble man can be ; 
 In labours oft, and work sublime, 
 
 From ostentation free.
 
 121 
 
 Beneath the " Shadow of the Cross," 
 
 Near where he loved to muse, 
 With foliage sweetly waving o'er, 
 
 His ashes now repose. 
 Bright is the fame he leaves behind, 
 
 His memory, revered ; 
 And to the hearts of multitudes 
 
 His name, how much endeared ! 
 
 Beneath the " Shadow of the Cross," 
 
 He early found his rest ; 
 We bow beneath the hand divine 
 
 And say " Thy will is best." 
 Would he had lived ! But no ! 'tis well 
 
 Our loss is his rich gain ; 
 He fell in well tried armour bright 
 
 He hath not lived in vain. 
 
 Beneath the " Shadow of the Cross," 
 
 Sweet spot in Vecta's Isle ! 
 How many, gazing on that grave, 
 
 Will pensive hours beguile, 
 Farewell, farewell, so early gone, 
 
 How much we feel our loss ! 
 For loved ia he who lies beneath 
 
 The " Shadow of the Cross !"
 
 122 
 
 THOUGHTS ON THE SEA SHOEE. 
 
 '* O what a miracle to man is man I"— Young. 
 
 What is man ? when I survey you, 
 
 Noble cliffs, so towering high ; 
 What is feeble, human nature, 
 
 But the merest vanity ? 
 Like the sand, which, on your summits, 
 
 Shifts at zephyrs gentlest breath, 
 Like the flower your steeps adorning, 
 
 Born to meet an early death. 
 
 What is man ? when I behold thee 
 
 Mighty Ocean in thy pride ! 
 Girdling in thy arms creation, 
 
 Vast, and fathomless, and wide ! 
 Vapour ! which the sun exhaleth ; 
 
 Drops which glitter in the sun ! 
 Such is man in all his glory, 
 
 Feeble, helpless, transient one. 
 
 What is man ? when I behold you, 
 
 Sun, and moon, and twinkling stars, 
 Orbs of beauty and effulgence, 
 
 Heaven's mysterious characters ! — 
 Like the meteor darting downward 
 
 With a meretricious glare ; 
 'Till the eye by it attracted 
 
 Findeth only darkness there !
 
 123 
 
 Such is man, when viewed as mortal 
 
 In a tenement of clay ; 
 But his soul, to death defiant, 
 
 Lives when earth shall pass* away ; 
 Lives, and liveth on for ever ! 
 
 Never shall its being end ! 
 Man how feeble, yet how noble ! 
 
 Who himself can comprehend ? 
 
 THE FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 " The fallen leaves in every path we tread 
 Mourn the bright verdure of the shrubberies fled." 
 
 They're dropping, they're dropping, all passing away, 
 The sport of the winds, as they frolic and play ; 
 The days of their fragrance and beauty are past, 
 They bow to the mandate and perish at last. 
 
 Tbey shaded me oft as they hung o'er my bower, 
 From the rain as it fell, and the sun's scorching power; 
 They rustled in concert when zephyrs past by, 
 But autumn is come and they perish and die. 
 
 They leave their rude branches all barren, forlorn, — 
 The branches on which in the spring they were born ; 
 No longer they deck with their verdant array, 
 The boughs where the linnet sang blithe on the spray.
 
 124 
 
 And yet to the last they are all full of fun, 
 
 And they sport on the paths where they drop one by one, 
 
 Till they moulder to dust, or are cast on the fire 
 
 To make the white flame kindle higher and higher. 
 
 They're dropping, they're dropping, all passing away ! 
 The sport of the winds as they frolic and play ? 
 The days of their beauty and fragrance are past, 
 They bow to the mandate and perish at last ! 
 
 THE BANKS OF MEDINA. 
 
 ' And to be happy here is man's chief end, 
 For to be happy he must needs be good."— H. K. White. 
 
 On the banks of Medina, oft times I have strayed, 
 And watched the tide ebbing and flowing ; 
 
 "While numbers of pleasurists, gaily arrayed, 
 Have o'er its fair bosom been rowing ; 
 
 And the oar- splash light ripples I oft have surveyed, 
 Like waves on its grassy banks beating ; 
 
 And, mused as I thought of earth's pleasures which fade- 
 Earth's pleasures, so transient, so fleeting. 
 
 Fond pleasures, alternate succeeded by calm, 
 
 Or transport — but soon it is over ; 
 And in anguish for lost ones, oh, where is her balm — 
 
 That solace we fain would discover ?
 
 125 
 
 Yet still doth the morrow's sun find us the same, 
 
 All earth born our hope and desire ; 
 Forgetting that spirits immortal should aim 
 ' At joys which are purer and higher. 
 
 But earth cannot meet the desires of man, 
 
 Nor answer the cravings within him ; 
 Nor will he be happy in life's precious span, 
 
 Till virtue and holiness win him. 
 Not earth born nor transient each heavenly grace, 
 
 God only of these is the giver ; 
 And where they abound 'tis delightful to trace 
 
 True joys flowing on like a river. 
 
 THE SLIGHTED EOSE. 
 
 ( Written on picking up a beautiful rose on the road to Hyde. J 
 
 " Even here 
 Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are found." — Cowper. 
 
 A lovely rose of crimson hue 
 
 And exquisite perfume, 
 Lay in my path, while journeying, 
 
 In all its blushing bloom ; 
 Though there exposed to dust and heat, 
 
 Its fragrance it retained ; 
 Its beauty, too, unfaded yet, 
 
 In loveliness remained.
 
 126 
 
 I could not pass and let it lie, 
 
 "Without my friendly aid ; 
 For ! the rose, whenever found, 
 
 In sunshine or in shade, 
 "Within the well-arranged parterre, 
 
 Conservatory, or bower, 
 Or climbing up the cottage wall, 
 
 Is still a noble flower ! 
 
 " Sweet Eose," I said, " fair lovely flower, 
 Untimely is thy doom ! 
 
 Plucked for thy beauty from the bough- 
 Loved for thy sweet perfume — 
 
 Prized for thy tints, so deep, so true, 
 Which hardly know decay — 
 
 E'en fragrant were thy beauty gone, 
 Sweet Eose, why thrown away ?" 
 
 I picked it up, and journeying on, 
 
 O'ertook a thoughtless maid, 
 "When grasped within her snowy hand 
 
 A nosegay I surveyed ; 
 Surpassing in its brilliancy, 
 
 And glorious in its glare, 
 I saw the poppy lift its head, 
 
 But ah ! no rose was there. 
 
 I then addressed my modest Eose — 
 
 "The secret now I see; 
 But can indeed a poppy flower, 
 
 Sweet Eose, thus rival thee ?
 
 127 
 
 Of fragrance void, of gaudy mien, 
 
 And transitory stay ; 
 foolish girl, to make such choice, 
 
 And throw a rose away !" 
 
 Yet ah ! I thought, this is the way 
 
 With thousands of our race, 
 "Who choose the trifles of a day 
 
 Before the Saviour's grace ; 
 Like her to whom I have referred, 
 
 "Who had, as I suppose, 
 In thoughtless folly, thus preferred 
 
 The poppy to the rose. 
 
 WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 
 
 C The Contrast. J 
 
 "The cottage hind 
 Hangs o'er th' enlivening blaze, and tasteful there 
 Eecounts his simple frolic : much he talks, 
 And much he laughs, nor recks the storm that blows 
 Without, and rattles on his humble roof."— Tltempson. 
 
 "Without, is a desolate scene, 
 
 The trees and the hedges are bare ; 
 The birds almost famished, I ween, 
 
 For nothing to feed them is there ; 
 The ground is encrusted with frost — 
 
 The crystalline icicles gleam — 
 The brooks have their murmuring lost — 
 
 All still the meandering stream.
 
 128 
 
 The cold is most bitter — severe — 
 
 With snow the whole landscape o'erlaid ; 
 All desolate, barren, and drear, 
 
 In winter's stern garment arrayed j 
 But few are the walkers abroad, 
 
 And they, muffled up to the chin ; 
 No attractions are now in the road, 
 
 Attraction is centred within. 
 
 Yes ! home is the centre of mirth, 
 
 And the winter endears us to home 
 No spot is so sweet upon earth, 
 
 "Wherever our footsteps may roam ; 
 Here hearts are blithe, happy, and free, 
 
 All anxious affection to win ; 
 Though cheerless without it may be, 
 
 It is cheerful and pleasant within. 
 
 And such is the Christian's career, 
 
 To his home and his rest in the skies ; 
 He passes through tempests severe — 
 
 His journey through barrenness lies; 
 But ah ! when his mansion he gains, 
 
 The conqueror's song to begin, 
 He will lose withoufs struggles and pains, 
 
 In the heritage blissful within.
 
 129 
 
 THE PEEFEEENCE. 
 
 (An early poem.) 
 
 " Whom have I in heaven but Thee." 
 
 I love my home, my youthful home, 
 
 'Tis always dear to me ; 
 Its sweet associations twine 
 
 Round every thing I see ; 
 The garden walk, the ivy wall, 
 
 The bower in verdure dressed, 
 Though simple things, are dear to me — 
 
 Yet, Lord, I love Thee best ! 
 
 I love my own dear native Isle, 
 
 It hath great charms for me ; 
 I love to climb its rocky heights, 
 
 And gaze upon the sea, — 
 To watch from off my native hills 
 
 The sun sink in the west ; 
 And muse along its crystal streams, — 
 
 Yet, Lord, I love Thee best ! 
 
 I love my parents — none can tell 
 
 How dear they are to me ; 
 Their very names like music sound, — 
 
 Like sweetest harmony. 
 'Twould grieve me to the heart to know 
 
 That I had them distressed ; 
 My parents ! ye are dear to me, 
 
 Yet, Lord, I love Thee best !
 
 130 
 
 I love my young companions — friends, 
 
 And they are fond of me ; 
 I should be lonely if bereft 
 
 Of their sweet company ; 
 They smile when I am full of joy, 
 
 "Weep when I am distressed; 
 Dear to my heart, my friends, ye are, — 
 
 Yet, Lord, I love Thee best ! 
 
 For other friends may turn aside ; 
 
 E'en parents may forget; 
 The joys of home may fade away, 
 
 And earthly pleasures set; 
 Thine only is unchanging love, 
 
 On Thee thy child will rest, 
 To lead me to Thy loved embrace — 
 
 Well may I love Thee best ! 
 
 ST. LAWKENCE. 
 
 " There is a grace in wild rariety 
 Surpassing' rule and order." 
 
 St. Lawrence ! sweet spot in the Isle 
 Combining the sombre and gay; 
 
 Where Nature's fond pilgrim may while 
 The summer tide hours away ;
 
 131 
 
 Where are rocks in their ruggedness frowning, 
 
 And vallies that calmly repose, 
 And woods, which the hillocks are crowning, 
 
 And water, which crystal like flows. 
 
 St. Lawrence ! sweet spot in the Isle, 
 
 The mansion and cottage are thine ; 
 The ancient and wide renowned pile, 
 
 Around which the evergreens twine ; 
 The ocean rolls proudly before thee, 
 
 And whitens thy shores with its foam ; 
 Cliffs rise in their majesty o'er thee, 
 
 The sea-gulls' wild refuge and home. 
 
 St. Lawrence ! sweet spot in the Isle, 
 
 I often have strayed to thy "Well, 
 "Where the running streams rumble and boil, 
 
 As from the stone dolphin they swell ; 
 On its benches I oft have been seated, 
 
 "When weary and worn by the way ; 
 And my ears have been welcomely greeted 
 
 "With the bull-finch's ravishing lay. 
 
 St. Lawrence ! sweet spot in the Isle, 
 
 Fair Nature broods lovingly o'er thee ! 
 ! never may avarice defile, 
 
 Nor mar thy green upland and lea ! 
 May glories, thine own, never perish, 
 
 In conflict with profit and gain ; 
 One spot from their sway we would cherish 
 
 "Where Nature, fair goddess, might reign !
 
 132 
 
 THE EUSTIC STILE. 
 
 ' Sometimes forgotten things long cast behind 
 Rush forward on the brain, and come to mind." — Dryden. 
 
 I love that rustic stile 
 
 Adown the shady lane ; 
 "Where verdant meadows smile, 
 
 And sylvan beauties reign ; 
 Yes, I would linger near it, 
 
 And on it sit and rest, 
 For thousand thoughts endear it 
 
 Upon my heart impress'd. 
 
 E'en now I love to ponder, 
 
 Bright infant days long flown, 
 When, truant, I would wander, 
 
 A little toddling one, 
 And oft essayed my power 
 
 To scale its magic height, 
 'Twas well ; it was a tower, 
 
 O'er-mastering my might. 
 
 When wearied of my straying 
 
 In later years gone by ; 
 And tired of my playing 
 
 To it I'd gladly hie ; 
 And on its seat, so welcome, 
 
 The sunny hours beguile, 
 More happy than a monarch 
 
 Upon that rustic stile !
 
 133 
 
 And oft in fancy's power 
 
 In tranquil summer's eve, 
 Would while away the hour, 
 
 And life long purpose weave ; 
 While on the leafy branches 
 
 Above, with merry sound, 
 Sweet philomel was singing, 
 
 And Cynthia's rays fell round. 
 
 There, jocund gleaners oft, 
 
 Returning from the fields, 
 The treasured burden doffed 
 
 Which golden harvest yields ; 
 There they would heap their gleanings, 
 
 Beside that rustic stile, 
 And, pleasant tale repeating, 
 
 Would rest themselves awhile. 
 
 And oft by moonlight hour 
 
 Fond lovers lingered there, 
 Absorbed in love's deep power, 
 
 A youthful, happy pair ! 
 How sweet the stolen kiss — 
 
 More sweet than tongue can tell ! 
 'Twas mine to share their bliss, 
 
 Nor rudely break the spell. 
 
 And many a wintry while 
 When hollow tempests blow, 
 
 Then was that rustic stile 
 All mantled o'er with snow ;
 
 134 
 
 Save where the little redbreast 
 Had brushed the snow away, 
 
 That it might sit and warble 
 Its cheerful winter's lay. 
 
 yes ! that rustic stile 
 
 Hath divers charms for me ; 
 Which claim their place awhile 
 
 In fondest memory ; 
 Full many pass nor heed it, 
 
 For other thoughts beguile ; 
 But not unmoved / view it — 
 
 That long known rustic stile. 
 
 ST. CEOSS,* NEAE NEWPOET. 
 
 ' Change is written on the tide 
 On the forests' leafy pride ; 
 On the streamlet glancing bright, 
 On the jewell'd crown of night ; — 
 All, where'er the eye can rest, 
 Show it legibly imprest."— J. H. Clinch. 
 
 Where the cow now ruminates, 
 
 And in peace reposes ; 
 Where the myrtle boughs are seen 
 
 And the climbing roses ; 
 
 • Previous to the year 1155, there was here a priory, dedicated to the Holy 
 Cross, which was a cell to the Abbey of Tyrone, in France.
 
 135 
 
 There of yore a priory 
 
 Kose in stately beauty ; 
 There the inmates spent their time 
 
 In their hallowed duty. 
 
 Through the groves, with measured step, 
 
 Paced the cowled friar ; 
 And, arrayed in priestly robes 
 
 Walked the lordly prior ; 
 There the matins' holy chimes, 
 
 And the vesper, sounded ; 
 And an air of sanctity 
 
 St. Cross' cells surrounded. 
 
 But the scene is altered now — 
 
 Altered so completely, 
 Thou mightst deem the tale of old, 
 
 Only meant to cheat thee ; 
 Nothing like a cloister, cells, 
 
 Arches, turrets, gables, 
 Meet the eye of him who peers 
 
 O'er the old thatched stables. 
 
 Felled are now those shady groves 
 
 Once so richly growing ; 
 And instead of choral chants 
 
 Sounds tho cattle's lowing ; 
 Now the milk maid hums her tune, 
 
 Lively, gay, and airy ; 
 And the place is widely known 
 
 As the " St. Cross Dairy."
 
 136 
 
 HABIT. 
 
 " How use doth breed a habit in a man." — Shakspeare. 
 
 As tributaries swell the seas, 
 
 And make the current stronger; 
 As summers add their growth to trees, 
 
 And make their branches longer ; 
 So trifling acts, and trifling ways, 
 
 In carelessness repeated, 
 Confirm the soul in folly's maze, 
 
 And leave its germ deep seated. 
 
 'Tis well to know how much depends 
 
 On what is daily acted ; 
 For each small act its chainwork lends 
 
 To make the mind compacted. 
 If thoughts and deeds are wise and kind, 
 
 They bode a hopeful morrow ; 
 But, if to waywardness inclined, 
 
 They promise nought but sorrow. 
 
 The love of right in little things, 
 
 Then surely is demanded ; 
 The atom which to atom clings, 
 
 Forms rocks where ships are stranded, 
 He who loves right will dread to go 
 
 One step to folly leading; 
 But love the paths where virtues grow, 
 
 The voice of wisdom heeding.
 
 137 
 
 WINTER 
 
 " All thing-s earthly doth show 
 That changes make our bliss — not mar." — F. A. Lewis. 
 
 "Winter, rude "Winter, is again supreme, 
 
 And frosts abound ; 
 No longer does the earth with plenty teem, 
 
 No more are found 
 The blushing peaches pendant from the bough, 
 Such luscious fruits his suns will not allow — 
 All, all is barren — all is desert now. 
 
 Sweet Philomel no longer through the night 
 
 Her music pours ; 
 No lark, up caroling to the dizzy height, 
 
 At noon-tide soars ; 
 No frisking lambkins nip the daisy glade — 
 No panting cattle seek the cooling shade — 
 No sport upon the village green is made. 
 
 Yet Winter, rude, possesses many a charm, 
 
 "Which yields delight ; 
 Fantastic icicles in varied form, 
 
 Our eyes invite ; 
 Fair is the landscape now with driven snow — 
 And fair our streamlets, though they cease to flow- 
 Sublime our tempests, which so wildly blow !
 
 138 
 
 So let it be ! Time's changes pleasures yield— 
 
 "We all love change ; 
 Its magic sceptre it delights to wield 
 
 O'er earth's wide range ; 
 And roses bloom, and then as soon decay — 
 And nights revolve into the glow of day; 
 And Winters come, and Summers pass away. 
 
 SONG OF THE NEW YEAE. 
 
 I am come, I am come, from the womb of Time, 
 To run my swift course in this changing clime ; 
 And I look for a smile from all I see — 
 A smile of joy, as a welcome to me. 
 
 As I entered the world, I could faintly hear 
 The passing farewell of the dying year; 
 And I caught the glad peals of many a chime, 
 Which were greeting the new-born child of Time. 
 
 And I thought—" 'tis a cheerful and happy land 
 Where, welcomed by all, I shall shortly stand." 
 And I hasted along with a merry heart, 
 In the mirth and the pleasure to bear a part. 
 
 I am come, I am come, and ye soon shall see 
 That not without cause ye thus welcome me ; 
 I will garnish your meads with beautiful flowers, 
 And deck with a garland the evergreen bowers.
 
 139 
 
 I will give you bright sunshine to warm and to cheer, 
 And the woodlands sweet songsters to ravish the ear; 
 And my sun shall soon ripen the fruits of the field, 
 And plenty shall teem while my sceptre I wield. 
 
 Then bid me "God speed" in this good work of mine, 
 Nor hinder the good which for you I design ; 
 But help me in blessing, and labour with me, 
 That this year to all may a happy year be ! 
 
 I am come, I am come, from the womb of Time, 
 To run my swift course in this changing clime ; 
 And I covet a smile from all I see — 
 A smile of joy, as a welcome to me ! 
 
 THE ADVANCE OF SPEING. 
 
 " Sweet the wild music of the laughing spring." — H. K. White. 
 
 Sweet Spring is advancing, and buds and gay flowers, 
 
 Her advent proclaim to the world ; 
 Her throne is erected in Flora's green bowers, 
 
 And wide is her standard unfurled. 
 
 She sent us the snow-drop to tell of her coming, 
 
 Which unman tied so modestly lies; 
 The tulip and hyacinth long have been blooming, 
 
 Delighting, admiring eyes.
 
 140 
 
 The landscape, which lay fast in "Winter's embraces, 
 
 Has once more its liberty found ; 
 And the pale-tinted primrose the hedge-row now graces, 
 
 And beauty awakens around. 
 
 High up in the heavens the lark's note is thrilling 
 
 Sweet music, long pent in its breast ; 
 Young colts the green meadows with gambols are filling ; 
 
 All nature seems happy and blest. 
 
 The forest, new mantled, its holiday keeping, 
 
 Now teems with gay creatures of song ; 
 And the squirrel, so wanton, from branch to branch leaping, 
 
 Is seen 'midst the woodland's blithe throng. 
 
 All hail ! thou fair season, earth's recent glad comer, 
 
 Thy presence we welcome with joy ; 
 While many exult o'er the pleasures of summer, 
 
 Thy praises my muse shall employ. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The lately found Roman Villa, at Carisbrooke. 
 
 Deeply imbedded 'neath the grassy sod, 
 Which ages have collected o'er the site 
 Where Eoman veterans boasted of their might, 
 Men o'er thee passed, nor knew on what they trod, 
 As now we know ; and feast our searching eyes 
 Upon the ruins, while strange feelings rise—
 
 141 
 
 Feelings of wonder that thou shouldst be there, 
 There, and unknown, and yet of beauty rare ! 
 Memento of the ages, when our land, 
 - Its native chieftains, roaming, wild, and free, 
 
 Unable to retard Rome's mastery, 
 Confessed the rule of her victorious band. 
 All fearless now of her imperial sway, 
 "lis ours to shield thee from entire decay. 
 
 SONNET TO EDMUND PEEL, Esq., OF 
 BONCHUECH. 
 
 Author of the " Fair Island," &c, &c. 
 
 Bard of the Isle ! of honored name, 
 
 Accept the thanks, accept the praise, 
 Which thy transporting muse doth claim, 
 
 Thy stirring and enchanting lays, 
 Which so delight, and so beguile, 
 
 The heart of him who ponders o'er 
 The stanzas of the loved ''Fair Isle,'" 
 
 So redolent of native lore. 
 Dear native Bard, upon thy brow 
 
 We place the laurel leaf of fame, 
 And thus, most gladly, we avow 
 
 The reverence which thy virtues claim ; 
 Nor would we our delight and boast conceal 
 That thou dost bear the glorious name of Peel !
 
 142 
 
 SONNET TO THE SEASONS. 
 
 Noiselessly the seasons roll, 
 Veering round from pole to pole ; 
 No commotion goes before them, 
 No excitement rageth o'er them ; 
 Spring succeeds to "Winter drear, 
 "When the blossoms sweet appear ; 
 Summer then ascends her throne, 
 Decked with flowers all her own ; 
 Autumn next, with liberal hand, 
 Scatters plenty o'er the land. 
 Thus the seasons gently roll, 
 Changing round from pole to pole ; 
 No commotion, noise or riot, 
 All is tranquil, calm, and quiet. 
 
 THE THEME WHICH NEVEE TIEES. 
 
 " The love of Christ, which passeth knowledge."— Eph, Hi., 19. 
 
 Earth in its beauty hath its charms- 
 The landscape gay and fair, 
 
 The grove, the valley, and the hill, 
 And sweet perfumed parterre ;
 
 143 
 
 Each for awhile delights the eye, 
 
 And meets our fond desires; 
 But, ah ! there is a theme more sweet, 
 
 "Which never, never tires. 
 
 Science has charms for minds, which love 
 
 "With wonder to explore, 
 The deep, unfathomable mines 
 
 Of scientific lore ; 
 The search into that vast unseen, 
 
 "With zeal the soul inspires; 
 But, ah ! there is a theme more grand 
 
 "Which never, never tires. 
 
 In heaven, on earth, alike 'tis known — 
 
 E'en angels chant its praise; 
 So vast the theme, 'twill never tire 
 
 Through everlasting days ; 
 When science droops, and earth dissolves, 
 
 In the last general fires, 
 The " love of Christ" shall still he new, 
 
 The theme which nevee tiees !
 
 byde: 
 
 james betddon, pbintee, stationee, etc., 
 
 1, ceoss stkeei.
 
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