THE FERN-OWL. 93 



I've heard it when, in by -gone hours, 



With friends beloved I wandered far, 

 Or rested in sweet woodbine bowers, 



Till evening sent her silver star. 

 And then we hailed the gem of night, 

 And walked with joy beneath its light. 



How often have we silent stood, 



To listen, chattering bird, to thee ; 

 And lingering, paused beside the wood, 



To catch thy rugged symphony ; 

 And thought that in that tranquil shade, 

 The fern-owl pleasant music made. 



With nature's genial love inspired, 



Wandering within his green domains, 

 Thee, Selborne's tuneful sage admired, 



And praised thy rude and jarring strains. 

 And loved at summer's closing day, 

 To watch thee in the twilight grey. 



Within those verdant precincts still, 

 When summer nights are soft and balm, 



Thy note on Selborne's wood-crowned hill, 

 Is heard in twilight's hour of calm : 



But Selborne's sage no more is seen, 



Pacing amid the alleys green. 



Yet lives he in his pleasant page, 



And every fossil, bird and flower, 

 Around the ruined hermitage, 



Or in his own deserted bower, 

 Becomes a relic rich and rare, 

 Because it stands recorded there. 



He sought, with unambitious aim, 



Lone Nature's secret steps to trace ; 

 Nor knew the charm his honoured name 



Would cast around his native place ; 

 Till distant travellers thither bound, 

 Deem that they tread on classic ground. 



