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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 bound ! 
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 different 
species of heath, of such variety of colours 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 beads, whilst others 
seem toresemble the golden trumpet, or tempt- 
ing berries, or porcelain of bell or bottle shape. 
Globes of alabaster hang on the slender spray of 
some, and others, again, remind us of Lilli- 
putian 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 
mountainous 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. 
So, 


























