THE HERON. 
Where grew the furze, now runs the fence ; 
Where waved the wild-rush free, 
And whistled moorland-grasses sere, 
Fat cattle roam the lea. 
The bow is gone, the hawk is thrown 
For ever from the hand ; 
And now we live a bookish race, 
All in a cultured land. 
Yet here and there some remnant 
Of those old woodland times ; 
Some waste lies brown; some forest spreads; 
Some rocky streamlet chimes. 
And there, beside the waters, 
On moorland and on wold, 
I find thee watching still, 
Thou fisherman of old. 
Oh fair, fair is the forest, 
When summer is in prime! 
And I love to lie by mountain lake, 
On its slopes of heath and thyme ! 
tig 
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