With what free growth the elm and plane Fling their huge arms across my wayGray, old, and cumbered with a train Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! Free stray the lucid streams, and find No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind Where never scythe has swept the glades. Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere With roaring like the battle's sound, And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, And smoke-streams gushing up the sky. I meet the flames with flames again, Here, from dim woods, the aged Past And lonely river, seaward rolled. Broad are these streams-my steed obeys, Plunges, and bears me through the tide : Wide are these woods-I thread the maze Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. I hunt till day's last glimmer dies O'er woody vale and grassy height; And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. ROBERT BURNS. THE HUNTER'S SONG. RISE! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn. Under the steaming, steaming ground, The birth-place of valor, the country of worth; 'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn: Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. The horn, the horn! The merry, bold voice of the hunter's horn. AUTUMN. are they? 99 Think not of them-thou hast thy music too : While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good| Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Hark, hark!-Now, home! and dream till And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly morn Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter's horn! O, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn! BARRY CORNWALL. bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. JOHN KEATS. Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by And make her grave green with tear on tear. hours. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |