MYRTLE. 
s 6 1 
A MYRTLE. 
KEATS. 
A myrtle, fairer than 
E’er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds 
Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 
A silent space with ever-sprouting green. 
All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, 
Creep through the shade with noisy fluttering, 
Nibble the little cupped flowers, and sing. 
THEIR GROVES O’ SWEET MYRTLE. 
BURNS. 
Their groves o’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon 
When bright beaming summers exalt the perfume ; 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen or green bracken, 
Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom 
Far dearer to me all yon humble brown bowers, 
Where the bluebell and gowan lurk lowly unseen : 
For there lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 
THE MYRTLE BOUGH. 
Still green ! as when on holy ground 
The tyrant’s blood was poured; 
Forget ye not what garlands bound 
The young deliverer’s sword ! 
Though earth may shroud Hasmodius now 
We still have sword and myrtle bough. 
51 
