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. 
