HEATH. 
173 
And glad T am that I can grasp your blossoms sweet 
and wild, 
And find myself a doter yet, a dreamer, and a child. 
ON A SPRIG OF HEATH. 
MRS. GRANT. 
Flower of the waste ! the heath-fowl shuns 
For thee the brake and tangled wood,— 
To thy protecting shade she runs, 
Thy tender buds supply her food ; 
Her young forsake her downy plumes 
To rest upon thy opening blooms. 
Flower of the desert though thou art ! 
The deer that range the mountain free. 
The graceful doe, the stately hart, 
Their food or shelter seek from thee ; 
The bee thy earliest blossom greets, 
And draws from thee her choicest sweets. 
Gem of the heath ! whose modest bloom 
Sheds beauty o’er the lonely moor ; 
Though thou dispense no rich perfume. 
Nor yet with splendid tints allure, 
Both valor’s crest and beauty’s power 
Oft hast thou decked, a favorite flower. 
Flower of the wild ! whose purple glow 
Adorns the dusky mountain’s side, 
Not the gay hues of Iris’ bow, 
Nor garden’s artful, varied pride, 
