O deep unlovely brooklet, moaning slow Thro's moorish fen in utter loneliness! The partridge cowers beside thy loamy flow In pulseful tremor, when with sudden press The huntsman fluskers thro' the rustled heather. In March thy sallow-buds from vermeil shells Break, satin-tinted, downy as the feather Of moss-chat that among the purplish bells Breasts into fresh new life her three unborn. The plover hovers o'er thee, uttering clear And mournful-strange, his human cry forlorn: While wearily, alone, and void of cheer Thou guid'st thy nameless waters from the fen, To sleep unsunned in an untrampled glen. |