 | The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems |  |
But not o'er field and flood alone
The gale its magic life has thrown;
Sweet, in its passing breath it brings
A tribute from all fragrant things:
From yon bright meadow's golden breast,
Where the slow cows luxurious rest;
Gambols the foal its mother round,
Or sleeps upon the sunny ground;
And the strong lamb's impetuous bound—
The gale its magic life has thrown;
Sweet, in its passing breath it brings
A tribute from all fragrant things:
From yon bright meadow's golden breast,
Where the slow cows luxurious rest;
Gambols the foal its mother round,
Or sleeps upon the sunny ground;
And the strong lamb's impetuous bound—
A squadron blithe and blest.
From the rich clover's purple glow,
Dotted with campions pure as snow;
From all the mingled flowers that spring
Where soon the whetted scythe shall ring;
And perch'd on bent, or umbel tall,
You hear the winchat's plaintive call.
From the bright, yellow charlock seen,
Flaming o'er many a corn-field green,
Where the wide line of weeders bend;
Or stop to see the lark ascend;
Or follow, with a startled stare,
The partridge or the rushing hare.
From the rich clover's purple glow,
Dotted with campions pure as snow;
From all the mingled flowers that spring
Where soon the whetted scythe shall ring;
And perch'd on bent, or umbel tall,
You hear the winchat's plaintive call.
From the bright, yellow charlock seen,
Flaming o'er many a corn-field green,
Where the wide line of weeders bend;
Or stop to see the lark ascend;
Or follow, with a startled stare,
The partridge or the rushing hare.
| The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems | |