SEPTEMBEE. 377 



The precious things of heav'n the dew 



That on the turf beneath it trembled ; 

 The distant landscape's tender blue, 

 The twilight of the woods that threw 

 . Their solemn shadows where it grew, 



Are at its potent call assembled. 



And while a simple plant, for me 



Brings all these varied charms together, 



I hear the murmurs of the bee, 



The splendour of the skies I see, 



And breathe those airs that wander free 



O'er banks of thyme and blooming heather." * 



And now, with botanical exploration thus pictured, 

 although my gun is not hoisted on my shoulder, may 

 I not exclaim with ALLAN CUNNINGHAM 



" Quoth I, fair lass, wilt thou gang wi' me, 

 Where black-cocks crow, and plovers cry ?" 



for at this season, when the autumnal sun faintly 

 struggles with mountain masses of enormous clouds, 

 and the green earth is fresh from frequent showers 

 dashing across the landscape, while the glorious arch 

 of promise rests magnificent on wood or hill, the dain- 

 tiest foot need not fear the fatigue of a hilly ascent ; 

 and who that has once tripped upon the hoary rein- 

 deer moss, stood upon the time-worn slab crusted 

 with the tartareous lichen, or sunk to dream upon the 

 blooming heather stretching far upon the mountain 

 side, but must long dwell upon the scene that then 

 rose in wild seclusion with still recurring enthusiasm. 

 But amidst the empurpling hues of the Devil's-bit 

 Scabious (Scabiosa succisa), and the bright yellow 

 blossoms of the Cow-Wheat (Ittelampyrum) , we now 

 descend the deep sides of a glen walled in on either 

 side with broken rocks, whose lofty heads shadow the 

 dingle with sepulchral gloom. There rest we on the 



* From an Ode by DOUGLAS ALLPOKT. 



