HEATH. 
223 
Who never kissed my cheek so hard as when it owned a 
tear. 
Whom did I love ? Oh, those whose faith I never had to 
doubt; 
Those who grew anxious at my sigh and smiled upon my 
pout. , 
What did I crave ? The power to rove unquestioned at 
my will; 
Oh, wayward idler that I was !—perchance I am such 
still. 
What did I fear? No chance or change, so that it did 
not turn 
My footstep from the moorland coast, the heather, and 
the fern. 
Methinks it was a pleasant time, those gipsy days of mine, 
When youth with rosy magic turned life’s waters into wine; 
But nearly all who shared those days have passed away 
from earth, 
Passed in their beauty and their prime, their happiness 
and mirth. 
So now, rich flowerets of the waste, I’ll sit and talk to ye, 
For memory’s casket, filled with gems, is opened by your 
key; 
And glad I 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,— 
