HEATHER LAYS. 



So might of old some warrior captive pine 



Amid the seven-hilled city's splendour erst 

 His home was by the Danube or the Rhine, 



Where Freedom's self his glowing spirit nursed. 

 Now the thick air, which, breathed by slaves is 



cursed, 

 Stifles his free-born soul as men beneath 



Close dungeon vaults for heaven's pure breezes 



thirst, 



He suffocating pants for freer breath 

 And welcome's Misery's friend, the slave's soul refuge, 

 Death. 



Frazer's Magazine. 



Flowers of the Moorland 



Wild flowers of the moorland, ye are very dear to me ; 

 Ye lure my dreaming memory as clover does the bee ; 

 Ye bring back all my childhood loved, when freedom, 



joy and health 

 Had never thought of wearing chains to fetter fame 



and wealth. 



Wild blossoms of the common land, brave tenants of 



the earth, 

 Your breathings were among the first that helped my 



spirit's birth ; 

 For how my busy brain would dream and how my 



heart would burn, 

 Where gorse and heather flung their arms above the 



forest fern. 



Eliza Cook. 

 218 



