THE HAREBELL. 199 
Old slopes of pasture ground ; 
Old fosse, and moat, and mound, 
Where the mailed warrior and crusader came; 
Old walls of crumbling stone, 
Where trails the snap-dragon ; 
Rise at the speaking of the Harebell’s name. 
We see the sere turf brown, 
And the dry yarrow’s crown 
Scarce raising from the stem its thick-set 
flowers ; 
The pale hawkweed we see, 
The blue-flowered chiccory, 
And the strong ivy-growth o’er crumbling towers. 
Light Harebell, there thou art, 
Making a lovely part 
Of the old splendour of the days gone by, 
Waving, if but a breeze 
Pant through the chestnut trees, 
That on the hill-top grow broad-branched and 
high. 
