. Poems . she tells her tale To every passing villager. 201 The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,And shells his nuts at liberty. In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,That breathe a gale of fragrance round,I charm the fairy-footed hours■With my loved lutes romantic sound;Or crowns of living laurel those that win the race at eve. The shepherds horn at break of ballet danced in twilight glade,The canzonet and roundelaySung in the silent green-wood shade;These simple joys, that never fail,Shall bind me to my native vale. D D 202 TO THE BUTTERFLY. Child of the sun! pursue thy raptur
. Poems . she tells her tale To every passing villager. 201 The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,And shells his nuts at liberty. In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,That breathe a gale of fragrance round,I charm the fairy-footed hours■With my loved lutes romantic sound;Or crowns of living laurel those that win the race at eve. The shepherds horn at break of ballet danced in twilight glade,The canzonet and roundelaySung in the silent green-wood shade;These simple joys, that never fail,Shall bind me to my native vale. D D 202 TO THE BUTTERFLY. Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight,Minghng with her thou lovst in fields of light;And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold,QuaiF fragrant nectar from their cups of shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky,Expand and shut with silent ecstasy!—Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that creptOn the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and such is man; soon from his cell of clayTo burst a seraph in the blaze of day!. WRITTEN INTHE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 2, 1812. Blue was the loch, the clouds were gone,Ben-Lomond in his glory shone,When, Luss, I left thee; when the breezeBore me from thy silver sands, 20 i Thy kiik-yard wall among the trees,Where, grey with age, the dial stands;That dial so well-known to me!—Tho many a shadow it had Sister, since with theeThe legend on the stone was read. The fairy-isles fled far away;That with its w^oods and uplands shepherd-huts are dimly seen,And songs are heard at close of day;That too, the deers wild covert, that, the asylum of the dead:While, as the boat went of Rob Roy the boat-man told;His arm that fell below his cattle-ford and mountain-hold. Tarbat, * thy shore I climbed at last;And, thy shady region another shore I looked upon another flood; ^Great Oceans self! (Tis He who fillsThat vast and awful depth of hills;)W here many an elf was playing tre
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