258 
SOLITUDE. 
To go, in dreariness of mood, 
O’er a lone heath, that spreads around 
A solitude like a silent sea, 
Where rises not a hut or tree; 
The wide embracing sky its hound ! 
Oh! beautiful those wastes of heath, 
Stretching for miles to lure the bee, 
Where the wild bird, on pinion strong, 
Wheels round and pours his piping song, 
And timid creatures wander free. 
MARY HOWITT. 
There are now about four hundred diffe¬ 
rent species of heath, of such variety of co¬ 
lours and forms that no pen can describe 
them. On some we observe little wax-like 
flowers, and others present us with pendent 
pearls; some are adorned with coralline heads, 
whilst others seem to resemble the golden 
trumpet, or tempting berries, or porcelain of 
bell or bottle shape. Globes of alabaster 
hang on the slender spray of some, and 
others, again, remind us of Lilliputian trees, 
bedecked with Turkish turbans in miniature. 
“ Their colours are not less varied than their 
shape, whilst the foliage is equally beautiful 
in its apparent imitation of all the mountain¬ 
ous trees from the Scottish fir to Lebanon’s 
boasted cedar.” 
A heath’s green wild lay present to his view, 
With shrubs and field-flowers decked, of varied hue. 
