MYRTLE. 
161 
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, 
W T here the bluebell and gowan lurk lowly unseen ; 
For there lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 
M 
