198 THE HAREBELL. 
The very flower to take 
Into the heart, and make 
The cherished memory of all pleasant places ; 
Name but the light harebell, 
And straight is pictured well 
Where’er of fallen state lie lonely traces. 
We vision wild sea-rocks, 
Where hang its clustering locks, 
Waving at dizzy height o’er ocean’s brink ; 
The hermit’s scooped cell; 
The forest’s sylvan well, 
Where the poor wounded hart came down to 
drink. 
We vision moors far-spread, 
Where blooms the heather red, 
And hunters with their dogs le down at noon ; 
Lone shepherd-boys who keep, 
On mountain-sides their sheep, 
Cheating the time with flowers and fancies 
boon. 
