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Round by the cheerful hearth we meet
England, Isle of free and brave,
As the tortoise turns its head
From its own beloved sea,
SIR WALTER SCOTT,
AND Well the lonely infant knew
I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade
I KNOW a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
I DREAMED that, as I wandered by the way,
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
Green cowbind and the moonlight-coloured May, And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray, And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold; Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.
And nearer to the river's trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, And starry river buds among the sedge,
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
FROM THE "RAPE OF PROSERPINE."
HERE this rose
(This one half-blown) shall be my Maia's portion, For that like it her blush is beautiful;
And this deep violet, almost as blue
I'll give to thee; for like thyself it wears
Hast clung to me, through every joy and sorrow;
WEAVE thee a wreath of woodbine, child,
'Twill suit thy infant brow;
It runs up free in the woodlands wild,
As tender and as frail as thou.
He bound his brow with a woodbine wreath,
And smiled his playful eye,
And he lightly skipped o'er the blossomed heath, In his young heart's ecstacy.