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So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMINENCE IN INGLEWOOD FOREST.
HE forest huge of ancient Caledon
That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood:
Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign
A FAREWELL TO THE VALLEY OF IRWAN.
AREWELL the fields of Irwan's vale,
The primrose on the valley's side,
The green thyme on the mountain's head, The wanton rose, the daisy pied,
The wilding's blossom blushing red; No longer I their sweets inhale. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale!
How oft, within yon vacant shade,
Has evening closed my careless eye!
Yet still, within yon vacant grove,
To mark the close of parting day,
And watch the wave that winds away,
Isis, the River.
DIVER, who with thy two soul-stirring names Speak'st, one of Rhedicyna's youthful dream, And one of Commerce', Empire's mighty stream At proud Augusta's foot, — Isis, and Thames, From Godstow, where the fairest of frail dames, Ros'mund, with epitaph uncourteous lies, Down to the reach where the tired skiffer ties His boat for Newnham's summer feast and games, These are the limits of my Isis: there, Or up or down, I cleft my swift-oared way Nightly, alone, with little heed or care, Through the full stream with racing cutters gay; Oft laughing at the imperious steersman's shout, As from his very bows I glided out!
John Bruce Norton.
Isle of Man.
ON ENTERING DOUGLAS BAY.
"Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori."
Just limits; but yon tower, whose smiles adorn
BY THE SEA-SHORE.
VHY stand we gazing on the sparkling brine,
Because the unstained, the clear, the crystalline
NCE on the top of Tynwald's formal mound (Still marked with green turf circles narrowing Stage above stage) would sit this island's king, The laws to promulgate, enrobed and crowned; While, compassing the little mount around, Degrees and orders stood, each under each; Now, like to things within fate's easiest reach, The power is merged, the pomp a grave has found. Off with yon cloud, old Snafell! that thine eye Over three realms may take its widest range; And let, for them, thy fountains utter strange Voices, thy winds break forth in prophecy, If the whole state must suffer mortal change, Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty.
Itchin, the River.
TO THE RIVER ITCHIN.
[TCHIN! when I behold thy banks again,
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,