THE PHEASANT. 85 
Where the water-rat swims calm and cool, 
And pike bask in the deep mill-pool. 
So on and away to the mossy moor, 
Stretching on for many a mile before, 
A far-seen wild, where all around 
Some rare and beautiful thing is found; 
Green mosses many, and sundew red, 
And the cotton-rush with its plumy head ; 
The spicy sweet-gale loved so well, 
And golden wastes of the asphodel! 
Yet on and on, o’er the springy moss,— 
We have yet the bog-rush bed to cross ; 
And then a-nigh, all shimmering green 
To the sunny breeze, are the birch-woods scen,— 
Than the green birch-wood a lovelier spot 
In the realms of fairy-land was not! 
And the pheasant is there all life, all grace, 
The lord of this verdurous dwelling-place. 
Oh! beautiful bird, in thy stately pride, 
Thou wast made in a waste of flowers to hide, 
