The title deeds of these rich shores are thine
By age,—thine, too, by succor and defence;
Ere they were kissed by winds, or waves beat thence,
Thy breast of beauty broke the beating brine.
All hail, fair Isle, first born! Thy jeweled shrine
Is worn by pilgrim feet; thy firgroves dense,
Peopled with Hamadryads, cheat the sense
With frolic fays and all the rosy Nine.
These younglings—Gilbert's Cliff, and Sharp, and Split,
Bold Silver Crag, the Islands Five, and Two,
And broad-browed Blomidon—the Basin's Ben,—
When comes the witchery of fog-wreathed view,
Each robed in richest hues, with curtsies fit,
Sails in and out the circle of thy ken.