98 
Till o’er the troubled flood an iris smiles, 
As if to charm its wrathful mood away; 
Or pitying view each little flower, bright-lined, 
Weeping its life away in sunless solitude. 
Now glancing upward to a dizzy height, 
I see the rowan fling its feathery sprays 
O’er the cleft rocks, with scarlet fruit so bright, 
It seems a svlvan iris to my jjaze. 
Fairest of trees diat love the rushing stream, 
The rocky glen, or mountain’s shaggy side ! 
Ah ! well, methinks, of yore might Fancy deem 
No evil thing could in thy presence bide; 
So pure thou look’st, so fearless, and so free, 
Owning no spells thyself save beauty’s witchery ! 
But hark ! stem duty calls, — sweet dreams, farewell 
I may no longer tread the winding glen, 
But quit its lonely charms, its torrents’ swell, 
For dingy streets, “ and busy hum of men.” 
Well, be it so: — though all without be drear, 
Within my home at least is peace and rest. 
Methinks the lark that springs the dawn to cheer 
Did never yet turn sorrowing to his nest; 
No ! though he sings while soaring, — yet his strain 
Is blythest when he nears his lowly home again. 
