WRITTEN IN THE PORCH OF BINSTEAD CHURCH, ISLE OF WIGHT.

FAREWELL, Sweet Binstead! take a fond farewell From one unused to sight of woods and seas,

Amid the strife of cities doom'd to dwell,

Yet roused to ecstacy by scenes like these, Who could for ever sit beneath thy trees, Inhaling fragrance from the flowery dell;

Or, listening to the murmur of the breeze, Gaze with delight on Ocean's awful swell.

Again farewell! nor deem that I profane
Thy sacred porch; for while the Sabbath strain
May fail to turn the sinner from his ways,
These are impressions none can feel in vain,-
These are the wonders that perforce must raise

The soul to God, in reverential praise.

THE WORLD.

Он, what a palace rare hast thou created,
Almighty Architect, for man's delight!

With sun, and moon, and stars illuminated;
Whose azure dome with pictured clouds is bright,
Each painted by thy hand,-a glorious sight!
Whose halls are countless landscapes, variegated,
All carpeted with flowers; while all invite
Each sense of man to be with pleasure sated.

Fruits hang around us; music fills each beak;
The fields are perfumed; and to eyes that seek
For Nature's charms, what tears of joy will start.

So let me thank thee, God, not with the reek
Of sacrifice, but breathings pour'd apart,

And the blood-offering of a grateful heart.

TO A ROSE.

THOU new-born Rose, emerging from the dew,
Like Aphrodite, when the lovely bather

Blush'd from the sea, how fair thou art to view,

And fragrant to the smell! The Almighty Father Implanted thee, that men of every hue,

Even a momentary joy might gather;

And shall he save one people, and pursue
Others to endless agony? O rather

Let me believe in thee, thou holy Rose,
Who dost alike thy lips of love unclose,

Be thy abode by saint or savage trod.

Thou art the priest whose sermons soothe our woes,

Preaching, with nature's tongue, from every sod, Love to mankind, and confidence in God.

ON AN ANCIENT LANCE, HANGING IN AN ARMOURY.

ONCE in the breezy coppice didst thou dance,
And nightingales amid thy foliage sang;

Form'd by man's cruel art into a lance,

Oft hast thou pierced, (the while the welkin rang With trump and drum, shoutings and battle clang,) Some foeman's heart. Pride, pomp, and circumstance, Have left thee, now, and thou dost silent hang, From age to age, in deep and dusty trance.

What is thy change to ours? These gazing eyes, To earth reverting, may again arise

In dust, to settle on the self-same space;

Dust, which some offspring, yet unborn, who tries To poise thy weight, may with his hand efface, And with his moulder'd eyes again replace.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

LONE warbler! thy love-melting heart supplies
The liquid music-fall, that from thy bill
Gushes in such ecstatic rhapsodies,

Drowning night's ear. Yet thine is but the skill

Of loftier love, that hung up in the skies

Those everlasting lamps, man's guide, until Morning return, and bade fresh flowers arise, Blooming by night, new fragrance to distil.

Why are these blessings lavish'd from above

On man, when his unconscious sense and sight Are closed in sleep; but that the few who rove,

From want or woe, or travels urge by night,

May still have perfumes, music, flowers, and light: So kind and watchful is celestial love!

*