Like children at the approach of one they love, The mountains rear their everlasting heads Of watch-dog, from the far abodes of men! Oh Queen! that rulest the nocturnal heaven, Peace dwells for ever with thee!-Tempests roll Their darkness o'er thy countenance serene, And blot thee from the wistful gaze of men,— 'Tis for a moment only, and the eve Again returning in quotidian round, Restores thee-like a phoenix from its tombIn unextinguish'd glory to our sight. Thou art a thing that passest not away; Thou art a thing that, looking, smil'st on Time, And on the changes of this lower world! But we are frail and fragile-we are men, Children of clay, and creatures of the dust; We are but for a moment, and no more; We are but flowers of a season! now thy face Beams on us, and to-morrow on our graves! Yet are we not without our bliss below, On eves how like to this! from out that shrine I saw thee, bursting from a ring of clouds, Where are the visions, that, with ardent mind, Year follows year Amid the tribes of guilty and unclean,- Should fly before our steps, and touch us not? We must not look for miracles, and ah! But still, when gazing from this pastoral mount Of this most unintelligible world; Of what it must encounter-must endure- We know not that the trembling sword o'erhangs, Nor that the yawning precipice is near, And so we follow on-and so we fall The victims of our inexperience! But, were it otherwise, and could we know The doom is fixed-the seal impress'd-the waves And if we can amend, 'tis then and there! Oh for a lonely cottage, far away Know ye the site of this my Paradise ? Over the whitened sash, and slated roof, The woodbine, wreathing its luxuriant boughs, Would form a verdant net-work; dark green leaves, VOL. X. And silver flowers superbly intertwined; From virgin snow-drop, and the crocus blue, And lavender, that with its breath perfumes Behind, the mountains rearing high their cones, Now, when the heavens are clear, my gaze would mark Before, the level champaign far and wide What my tasks would be I may not tell; perhaps the busy world Would deem them frivolous, and I would not, So much our tastes and tempers disagree. But where would stray my fancy? Where would roam My unsubstantial visions? Mid the depths Of things that may not be! Of no avail Comes like a cloud, and with its ebon hues, But thou art with me still, all glorious Moon, Down from thy throne thou gazest, and the trees 4 K Down from thy throne thou gazest-and the hills Tell that their years as numerous are as thine, Then come what may, be this my solace still- And midnight rules in darkness. Add to this- Henceforth all murmurs, and repinings cease- A THE SMUGGLER. I SPENT the whole of last summer, and a part of the ensuing winter, on the Hampshire coast, visiting successively most of its sea-ports and bathing-places, and enjoying its beautiful diversity of sea and wood scenery, often so intermingled, that the forest-trees dip down their flexile branches into the salt waters of the Solon sea; and green lawns and healthy glades slope down to the edge of the silver sands, and not unfrequently to the very brink of the water. In no part of Hampshire is this characteristic beauty more strikingly exemplified than at the back of the Isle of Wight, that miniature abstract of all that is grand and lovely throughout England. Early in August, I crossed over from Portsmouth to Ryde, purposing to fix my headquarters there, and from thence to make excursions to all such places as are accounted worthy the tourist's notice. But a guide-book is at best an unsympathizing companion, cold and formal as the human machine that leads you over some old abbey, or venerable cathedral, pointing out indeed the principal monuments and chapels, but passing by, unnoticed, a hundred less outwardly distinguished spots, where feeling would love to linger, and sentiment find inexhaustible sources of interest and contemplation. For want of a better, however, I set out with my silent guide, but soon strayed wide of its directions, rambling away, and often tarrying hours and days in places unhonoured by its notice, and perversely deviating from the beaten road, that would have conducted a more docile tourist, and one of less independent tastes, to such or such a nobleman's or gentleman's seat, or summer-house, or pavilion, built on purpose to be visited and admired. But I did not shape my course thus designedly in a spirit of opposition to the mute director, whose (not unserviceable) clue led me at last amongst the romantic rocks and cottages of Shanklin, Niton, and Undercliff. It led me to those enchanting spots and to their lovely vicinity; but to entice me thence, was more than its inviting promises could effect; and finally I took up my abode for an indefinite time in a cottage of grey native stone, backed by the solid rocks, and tapestried in front with such an interwoven profusion of rose and myrtle, as half hid the little casements, and aspired far over the thatched roof and projecting eaves. Days, weeks, months, slipped away imperceptibly in this delicious retreat, and in all the luxury of lounging felicity. Mine was idleness, it is true, the sensation of perfect exemption from all existing necessity of mental or corporeal exertion ;-not suspension of ideas, but rather a season of unbounded liberty for the wild vagrant thought to revel in, to ramble at will beyond the narrow boundaries assigned by the claims of business or society, to her natural excursiveness. Summer passed away-the harvest was gathered in-autumn verged upon winter, and I still tenanted the rock cottage. No where are we so little sensible of the changes of season as in the sea's immediate vicinity; and the back of the Isle of Wight is peculiarly illustrative of this remark. Completely screened from the north by a continued wall of high rocky cliff, its shores are exposed only to the southern and westerly winds, and those are tempered by the peculiar softness always perceptible in sea-breezes. On a mild autumn day, or bright winter's morning, when the sun sparkles on the white sands and scintillating waves, on the sails of the little fishing-boats that steal along the shore with their wings spread open, like large butterflies, or on the tall grey cliffs, tinted with many-coloured lichens, a lounger on the beach will hardly perceive that the year is in its "sere and yellow leaf," or already fallen into the decrepitude of winter. And when the unchained elements proclaim aloud that the hoary tyrant hath commenced his reign, when the winds are let loose from their caverns, and the agitated sea rolls its waves in mountainous ridges on the rocky coast, when the sea-fowl's scream is heard mingling in harsh concord with the howling blast; then, oh! then,-who can tear himself from the contemplation of a scene more sublimely interesting than all the calm loveliness of a summer prospect? To me its attractions were irresistible; and besides those of inanimate nature, I found other sources of interest in studying the character and habits of the almost amphibious dwellers on that coast. Generally speaking, there is something peculiarly interesting in the character of seafaring men, even of those whose voyages have extended little beyond their own shores. The fisherman's life indeed may be accounted one of the most constant peril. For daily bread, he must brave daily dangers. In that season when the tillers of the ground rest from their labours-when the artisan and mechanic are sheltered with- ́ in their dwellings-when the dormouse and the squirrel hide in their woolly nests, and the little birds find shelter in hollow banks and trees, or resort to milder regions, the poor fisherman must encounter all the fury of the combined elements-for his children's bread is scattered on the waters. It is this perpetually enforced intercourse with danger that interests our feelings so powerfully in their behalf, together with its concomitant effects on their character-undaunted hardihood-insurmountable perseverance-almost heroic daring; and, generally speaking, a simplicity of heart, and a tenderness of deportment towards the females and little ones of their families, finely contrasting their rugged exterior. But, unfortunately, it is not only in their ostensible calling of fishermen, that these men are forward in effronting peril. The temptation of contraband trade too often allures them from their honest and peaceable avocations, to brave the laws of their country, and encounter the most fearful risks, in pursuit of precarious, though sometimes considerable gains. Of late, this desperate trade has extended almost to an organized system; and, in spite of all the preventive measures adopted by government, it is too obvious that the numbers of these "free traders" are yearly increasing, and that their hazardous commerce is more daringly and vigorously carried on. Along the Hampshire coast, and more particularly in the Isle of Wight, almost every seafaring man is engaged in it, to a less or greater extent. For the most part, they are connected in secret associations, both for co-operation and defence; and there is a sort of freemasonry among them, the signs and tokens of which are soon apparent to an attentive observer. "The CustomHouse sharks," as they term them, are not their most formidable foes, for they wage a more desperate warfare, (as re |