—­Had you Gyges’ ring,
    Or the herb that gives invisibility.

Ben Jonson makes a similar allusion to it: 

                        I had
    No medicine, sir, to go invisible,
    No fern-seed in my pocket.

Pope puts a branch of spleen-wort, a species of fern, (Asplenium trichomanes) into the hand of a gnome as a protection from evil influences in the Cave of Spleen.

    Safe passed the gnome through this fantastic band
    A branch of healing spleen-wort in his hand.

The fern forms a splendid ornament for shadowy nooks and grottoes, or fragments of ruins, or heaps of stones, or the odd corners of a large garden or pleasure-ground.

I have had many delightful associations with this plant both at home and abroad.  When I visited the beautiful Island of Penang, Sir William Norris, then the Recorder of the Island, and who was a most indefatigable collector of ferns, obligingly presented me with a specimen of every variety that he had discovered in the hills and vallies of that small paradise; and I suppose that in no part of the world could a finer collection of specimens of the fern be made for a botanist’s herbarium.  Fern leaves will look almost as well ten years after they are gathered as on the day on which they are transferred from the dewy hillside to the dry pages of a book.

Jersey and Penang are the two loveliest islands on a small scale that I have yet seen:  the latter is the most romantic of the two and has nobler trees and a richer soil and a brighter sky—­but they are both charming retreats for the lovers of peace and nature.  As I have devoted some verses to Jersey I must have some also on

THE ISLAND OF PENANG.

I.

    I stand upon the mountain’s brow—­
    I drink the cool fresh, mountain breeze—­
    I see thy little town below,[090]
    Thy villas, hedge-rows, fields and trees,
    And hail thee with exultant glow,
    GEM OF THE ORIENTAL SEAS!

II.

    A cloud had settled on my heart—­
    My frame had borne perpetual pain—­
    I yearned and panted to depart
    From dread Bengala’s sultry plain—­
    Fate smiled,—­Disease withholds his dart—­
    I breathe the breath of life again!

III.

    With lightened heart, elastic tread,
    Almost with youth’s rekindled flame,
    I roam where loveliest scenes outspread
    Raise thoughts and visions none could name,
    Save those on whom the Muses shed
    A spell, a dower of deathless fame.

IV.

    I feel, but oh! could ne’er pourtray,
    Sweet Isle! thy charms of land and wave,
    The bowers that own no winter day,
    The brooks where timid wild birds lave,
    The forest hills where insects gay[091]
    Mimic the music of the brave!