HEATHER BURNING 



When clover fields have lost their tints of green, 

 And beans are full, and leaves are blanch'd and lean, 

 And winter's piercing breath prepares to drain 

 The thin green blood from every poplar's vein, 

 How grand the scene yon russet down displays, 

 While far the withering heaths with moorburn blaze ! 



The pillar'd smoke ascends with ashen gleam, 

 Aloft in air the arching flashes stream 

 With rushing, crackling noise the flames aspire 

 And roll one deluge of devouring fire; 

 The timid flocks shrink from the smoky heat, 

 Their pastures leave, and in confusion bleat, 

 With curious look the flaming billows scan, 

 As whirling gales the red combustion fan. 



But far remote, ye careful shepherds, lead 

 Your wanton flocks to pasture on the mead, 

 While from the flame the bladed grass is young, 

 Nor crop the slender spikes that scarce have sprung; 

 Else, your brown heaths to sterile wastes you doom, 

 While frisking lambs regret the heath-flower's bloom! 

 109 



