Even the wide Heath, where the unequal ground Has never on its rugged surface felt The hand of Industry, though wild and rough, Is not without its beauty; here the furze, Enrich'd among its spines, with golden flowers Scents the keen air; while all its thorny groups Wide scatter'd o'er the waste are full of life; For 'midst its yellow bloom, the assembled chats Wave high the tremulous wing, and with shrill notes, But clear and pleasant, cheer the extensive heath. Linnets in numerous flocks frequent it too, And bashful, hiding in these scenes remote From his congeners, (they who make the woods And the thick copses echo to their song) The heath-thrush makes his domicile; and while His patient mate with downy bosom warms Their future nestlings, he his love lay sings Loud to the shaggy wild[.] -- the Erica here, That o'er the Caledonian hills sublime Spreads its dark mantle (where the bees delight To seek their purest honey), flourishes, Sometimes with bells like Amethysts, and then Paler, and shaded like the maiden's cheek With gradual blushes -- Other while, as white As rime that hangs upon the frozen spray. Of this, old Scotia's hardy mountaineers Their rustic couches form; and there enjoy Sleep, which beneath his velvet canopy Luxurious idleness implores in vain! Between the matted heath and ragged gorse Wind natural walks of turf, as short and fine As clothe the chalky downs; and there the sheep Under some thorny bush, or where the fern Lends a light shadow from the Sun, resort, And ruminate or feed; and frequent there Nourish'd by evening mists, the mushroom spreads From a small ivory bulb, his circular roof[,] The fairies['] fabled board[.] -- Poor is the soil, And of the plants that clothe it few possess Succulent moisture; yet a parasite Clings even to them; for its entangling stalk The wire[-]like dodder winds; and nourishes, Rootless itself, its small white flowers on them. So to the most unhappy of our race Those, on whom never prosperous hour has smiled, Towards whom Nature as a step-dame stern Has cruelly dealt; and whom the world rejects[,] To these forlorn ones, ever there adheres Some self-consoling passion; round their hearts Some vanity entwines itself; and hides, And is perhaps in mercy given to hide, The mortifying sad realities Of their hard lot. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN by GEORGE DARLEY THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 15 by OMAR KHAYYAM CUPID MISTAKEN by MATTHEW PRIOR THE SENSITIVE PLANT by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY DERELICT; A REMINISCENCE OF R.L.S.'S TREASURE ISLAND by YOUNG EWING ALLISON |