ON A SPRAY OF HEATHER
Far from its native moorland
Or crest of “wine-red” hill,
At sight or scent of heather
The hearts of Scotsmen thrill.
Though crushed its purple blossoms,
Its tender stems turned brown,
It brings romantic Highlands
Into prosaic town.
The clans are on the border,
The chiefs are in the fray;
We’re keen upon their footsteps
With Walter Scott to-day.
Peat smoke from lowland cottage
Floats curling up, and turns
Our dreams toward quiet hearthstones
And melodies of Burns.
And last our fancy lingers
With fond regret and vain
Where sleeps our Tusitala
Beneath the tropic rain—
Far from the purple heather
Or gleaming rowan bough,
Alone on mountain summit,
“Our hearts remember how.”
THE HOTHOUSE VIOLET SPEAKS
TO A FAIR WOMAN
I’ve calmly lived my sunny little life
Under the crinkling glass, and free from strife;
The sky above and all around is blue,
And from this haven now I come to you.
Fair Lady, tell me have I heard aright
That other flowers do not live so bright?
That in dark forests and by noisy streams
The pale wood violet sheds its purple beams?
While we are merry in this fireside glow
My humble cousin shivers in the snow;
And yet a cricket whispered once to me
That I the captive was—my cousin, free!
Sometimes I’ve dreamed the cricket told me true;
I’ve longed for freedom and the pleasing view
Of moss-grown hummocks and great whispering trees,
With gold-winged songsters humming in the breeze.