PROGRESS OF A NATURALIST. 429 



Some ancient volume poring o'er, 

 A dark bound herbal on the floor. 

 The tawny page he reads with care, 

 Yet finds a something wanting there ; 

 Then lifts his face with thoughtful look, 

 And calmly shuts his musty book. 



I trace him still on Scotia's hills, 

 By craggy steeps, by mossy rills, 

 In heathy vale, o'er ferny lands, 

 'Long dusky shelves, on granite bands ; 

 Each nook, each cranny, close explore, 

 And half the island's sandy shore ; 

 The mead, the woodland, and the plain : 

 And now the wand'rer 's home again. 



I see, upon a wide-spread board, 

 This rambler's rare and cherish'd hoard : 

 Mysterious grasses scatter'd o'er, 

 A glass, a press, and books of lore ; 

 With grave, consid'rate care and thought, 

 Compares the species he has brought ; 

 Then, ranging out each sep'rate race, 

 He bids their form the pencil trace. 



Ah, Vulcan ! that thy hateful rage 

 Should moulder half his studious page. 



How wav'ring is the mind of man ! 

 A fickle thing since time began 

 Hates this to-day, to-morrow loves, 

 Neglecting what he most approves 



