SUMMER. AUTUMN. 335 



The moors ! the moors ! the fragrant moors ! 

 When the heather breaks forth into purple flowers ! 



When the blazing Sun 

 Through the Crab hath run, 

 And the Lion's wrath 

 Inflames his path, 



What garden can vie with the glowing moors ! 

 The light clouds seem in mid air to rest 

 On the dappled mountain's misty breast, 

 And living things bask in the noon-tide ray, 

 That lights up the summer's glorious day ; 

 Nor a sough of wind, nor a sound is heard, 

 Save the faint shrill chirp of some lonely bird 

 Save the raven's croak, or the buzzard's cry, 

 Or the wild bee's choral minstrelsy, 

 Or the tinkling bell of the drowsy flock, 

 Where they lie in the shade of the caverned rock ; 

 But when the last hues of declining day 

 Are melted and lost in the twilight grey, 

 And the stars peep forth, and the full-orbed moon 

 Serenely looks down from her highest noon, 

 And the rippling water reflects her light 

 Where the birch and the pine-tree deepen the night : 

 Oh ! who but must own his proud spirit subdued 

 By the calm of the desert solitude ; 

 So balmy, so silent, so solemnly fair, 

 As if some blest spirit were riding the air, 

 And might commune with man on the moorland bare ! 



The moors I the moors ! the joyous moors ! 

 When Autumn displays her golden stores : 



