HEATH. 
225 
When he from some cold foreign strand, 
Looks homeward through the blinding tear. 
How must his aching heart deplore 
That home and thee he sees no more. 
HEATH. 
How oft, though grass and moss are seen 
Tanned bright for want of showers, 
Still keeps the ling its darksome green. 
Thick set with little flowers. 
AUTUMN. 
T. HOOD. 
The Autumn skies are flushed with gold, 
And fair and bright the rivers run; 
These are but streams of winter cold 
And painted mists that quench the sun 
In secret boughs no sweet birds sing, 
In secret boughs no bird can shroud; 
These are but leaves that take to wing 
And wintry winds that pipe so loud. 
’Tis not trees’ shade, but cloudy glooms, 
That on the cheerless valley fall 
The flowers are in their grassy tombs, 
And tears of dew are on them all. 
Q 
