Written at Steephill, in the Isle of Wight, August, M DCC XC. Catherine Rebecca Grey, Lady Manners Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T173070 Manners, Catherine Rebecca, Lady, 1766 or 1767-1852. Poems by Lady Manners. Second edition. London John Bell 1793 pp. [93]-97. 126p.

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Written at Steephill , in the Isle of Wight , August , M DCC XC. WHAT joy , escaping from the restless throng , Who in Augusta A name for London . waste their trifling day , To wander , Vecta The ancient name of the Isle of Wight . , thy wild rocks among , Or careless o'er thy airy summits stray ! Or musing loiter in thy waving groves , Or mark thy limpid streamlets as they flow ; Or view thy hamlets , where mild Patience loves To shade with olive Labour's sun-burnt brow ! Where the calm villagers content abide , Blest in the sweets of Liberty and Peace , Crop the luxuriant harvest's golden pride , Or spread their nets to catch the finny race . No wild ambition damps the genuine joys Which bounteous Nature to her sons affords ; No keen remorse their quiet rest annoys , Or sick disgust attends their frugal boards . Ah ! why should Fortune , with deceitful smile , Lure free-born Britons from the rural plain , In courts deprav'd for sordid wealth to toil , And meanly drag a golden idiot's chain ? What numbers , Vecta , on thy sea-girt shore , Unpractis'd in the world's pernicious strife , Rich in simplicity , ne'er sought for more , And clos'd where they receiv'd their blameless life ! Yet tho' thy hills no costly metals yield , To draw oppressive Avarice from afar , Even here the rustic in his native field Has sunk beneath the iron hand of war . When banish'd Harold Harold , with his father Earl Goodwin , and brother Tosti , invaded this Island when banished the kingdom . with destructive rage Against thine Isle his vengeful fury turn'd , What crowds , unnoted in the historic page , Here o'er their murder'd friends in anguish mourn'd ! The dreadful scene , methinks , even now I see ! O Harold , be this cruelty abhorr'd ! Spare the low cot of helpless Poverty , And 'gainst the powerful turn thy conquering sword . Here amid sanguine heaps Earl Goodwin stands ; Relentless Tosti hears the suppliants cry ; Those cries restrain not the fierce victor's hands , And the pale Islanders unpitied die . Unhappy victims , who with fruitless prayers To savage conquerors have sued in vain ! To avenge your wrongs , impending Fate prepares For your unfeeling foes an equal pain . Soon civil discord , and fraternal hate , Shall destine Tosti to an early tomb ; While madly proud , usurping regal state , Harold on Hastings' plain shall meet his doom . Where the insignia now of kingly pride , The dazzling sceptre and imperial throne ? For him each vain distinction's laid aside ! " UNHAPPY HAROLD Harold was buried by his Mother at Waltham Abbey , with this emphatic Inscription : " INFELIX HAROLD . " Vide Rapia . ! " only marks the stone . Thus shall the monarch mingle with the slave , Thus shall the noble and ignoble meet : Death , all-subduing , opens in the grave , To wealth and wretchedness a like retreat . But turn , my mind , from ages long past o'er , Far brighter prospects to thy view remain ; Vecta can dread a hostile force no more , While England's navy triumphs o'er the main At this time the English fleet lay off the Isle of Wight , commanded by Lord Howe . . Behold the warlike fleet in proud array , Majestic moving o'er the liquid plain : Loose to the wind their flags and streamers play , And menace ruin to insulting Spain . Thrice happy land , where the directing care Of a wise Statesman Our present Minister . in each step we trace ; Whose active vigilance prepares for war , Even when reclining in the lap of Peace ! Long may he , Albion , near thy throne preside ; And ne'er inconstant Fortune's falsehood prove , Humble the Spanish and the Gallic pride , And be rewarded by his country's love ! Here pause , my Muse ! no more the theme pursue , Fix on the present thine enraptur'd eye : A brighter scene can ne'er attract thy view ; O , may its cheering lustre never die !