THE HEATH. 
139 
Hail, beautiful flower! on the wild moorlands growing, 
Or wreathing the rock with thy garlands so fair, 
That leavest the rich mead where the calm rill is flowing 
For the torrent’s vex’d course, and the free mountain air. 
Hail, child of the Highlands ! what seemlier token 
Could Liberty wish for the fearless and brave, 
When they rush down their mountains with spirits 
unbroken, 
To claim from the spoiler or freedom or grave ? 
Since I’ve view’d thee afar in thine own Highland 
dwelling, 
There are spells clinging round thee I knew not before, 
For to fancy’s rapt ear dost thou ever seem telling 
Of the pine-crested rock and the cataract’s roar. 
Almost, as I view thee, the breeze of the mountain 
Floats round me with healing and joy on its wing, 
Almost do I hear the wild gush of the fountain, 
And see the dark cavern which cradles its spring. 
Then well may I love thee, thou beautiful blossom, 
And hail the low hum of thy murmuring bee; 
For bright are the visions thou bring’st to my bosom. 
And sweet the wild legends thou whisper’st to me. 
