His Native Heath. 159 



Here a headlong torrent is brawling in its rocky bed. 

 There a quiet pool mirrors in its silver face its fringe 

 of fern and sedges. Here a patch of heather or a 

 clump of asphodel rises like a small green island in a 

 sea of ruin. 



It was not always thus bare and desolate. The 

 broken ground reveals the stumps of gigantic trees, 

 hewn down long ages since, and covered deep with 

 peat and shingle : trees whose wide arms once filled 

 this bleak hollow with fair green waves of forest. 



The pathway gains a higher level still, winding 

 among rocky knolls through knee-deep heather that 

 purples all the hill. 



On the summit of a grey monolith that lifts its 

 mighty head above a sea of fern there sits an ouzel, 

 presently flying off to higher ground with ringing call- 

 note, answered by a comrade in the distance. 



Far up against the sky, just clear of the great peak 

 that now looks down into the valley, floats the figure 

 of a raven, drifting away towards some white object 

 on a distant ridge. 



The pathway brings us nearer. It is the body of a 

 sheep, from which three sombre figures rise reluctantly 

 with deep and sullen croak as they leave for a space 

 their hapless prey. 



There are more traces of the miners now; ruined 

 cottages, windowless, roofless, dismantled; rude fur- 

 naces in which is lying still the half-roasted ore, cold 

 this many a day. 



