
LADY FERN. 


But seek her not in early May, 
For a Sibyl then she looks, 
With wrinkled fronds that seem to say, 
«Shut up my wizard books!” 
Then search for her in the summer woods, 
Where rills keep moist the ground, 
Where foxgloves from their spotted hoods 
Shake pilfering insects round ; 

















Where up and clambering all about, 
The traveller’s joy flings forth 
Its snowy awns, that in and out 
Like feathers strew the earth. 
Fair are the tufts of meadow sweet 
That haply blossom nigh, 
Fair are the whorls of violet 
Prunella shows hard by ; 
But not by burn, in wood, or dale, 
Grows anything so fair 
As the plumy crest of emerald pale 
That waves in the wind, or soughs in the gale, 
Of the Lady fern, when the sunbeams turn 
To gold her delicate hair. 
bright 




WALTER SCOTT. 



WHERE the copse-wood is the greenest, 
Where the fountain glistens sheenest, 
Where the morning dew lies longest, 
There the lady fern grows strongest. 




