They sprung around his cottage door; 
He saw them on the heathy moor; 
Within the forest’s twilight glade, 
Where the wild deer its covert made ; 
In the green vale remote and still, 
And gleaming on the ancient hill. 
The days are distant now—gone by 
With the old times of minstrelsy ; 
When all unblest with written lore, 
Were treasured up traditions hoar; 
And each still lake and mountain lone, 
Had a stern legend of its own ; 
And hall, and cot, and valley-stream, 
Were hallowed by the minstrel’s dream. 
Then, musing in the woodland nook 
Each flower was as a written book, 
Recalling, by memorial quaint, 
The holy deed of martyred saint; 
The patient faith, which, unsubdued, 
Grew mightier, tried through fire and blood. 
One blossom, ’mid its leafy shade, 
The virgin’s purity portrayed ; 
And one, with cup all crimson dyed, 
Spoke of a Saviour crucified ; 
