 | The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems |  |
Who has not loved, at such an hour,
Upon that heath, in birchen bower,
Lull'd in the poet's dreamy mood,
Its wild and sunny solitude?
While o'er the waste of purple ling
You mark'd a sultry glimmering;
Silence herself there seems to sleep,
Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep,
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep
Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloom,
And gleaming of the scatter'd broom.
Love you not, then, to list and hear
The crackling of the gorse-flowers near,
Pouring an orange-scented tide
Of fragrance o'er the desert wide?
To hear the buzzard whimp'ring shrill,
Hovering above you high and still?
The twittering of the bird that dwells
Amongst the heath's delicious bells?
While round your bed, o'er fern and blade,
Insects in green and gold array'd,
The sun's gay tribes have lightly stray'd;
And sweeter sound their humming wings
Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings.
Upon that heath, in birchen bower,
Lull'd in the poet's dreamy mood,
Its wild and sunny solitude?
While o'er the waste of purple ling
You mark'd a sultry glimmering;
Silence herself there seems to sleep,
Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep,
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep
Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloom,
And gleaming of the scatter'd broom.
Love you not, then, to list and hear
The crackling of the gorse-flowers near,
Pouring an orange-scented tide
Of fragrance o'er the desert wide?
To hear the buzzard whimp'ring shrill,
Hovering above you high and still?
128
Amongst the heath's delicious bells?
While round your bed, o'er fern and blade,
Insects in green and gold array'd,
The sun's gay tribes have lightly stray'd;
And sweeter sound their humming wings
Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings.
| The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems | |