SEPTEMBER. 311 



Now to the mountains turn thine eye, 

 How shine they through the burnished air ! 



The little flocks, like drifts of snow, 



The shepherds' sheilings grey and low, 

 Thou seest them in their beauty there. 



Oh to lie down in wilds apart 



Where man is seldom seen or heard ; 

 In still and ancient forests where 

 Mows not his scythe, ploughs not his share, 



With the shy deer and cooing bird ! 



To go, in dreaminess of mood, 



O'er a lone heath, that spreads around 



A solitude like a silent sea, 



Where rises not a hut or tree, 

 The wide-embracing sky its bound ! 



Oh ! beautiful those wastes of heath, 



Stretching for miles to lure the bee, 

 Where the wild-bird, on pinion strong, 

 Wheels round and pours his piping song, 



And timid creatures wander free. 



Far sails the thistle's hoary down ; 



All summer flowers have passed away 

 This is the appointed time for seed, 

 From the forest-oak to the meanest weed, 



A time of gathering and decay. 



