FROM THE DANISH.
I lay on my heathery hills all alone,
The storm-winds rush’d o’er me in turbulence loud;
My head rested lone on the gray moorland stone,
My eyes wandered starward from cloud unto cloud.
There wandered my eyes, but my thoughts onward passed,
Far, far beyond cloud-track or tempests’ career;
At times I hummed songs, and the desolate waste
Was the first the sad chimes of my spirit to hear.
Gloomy and gray are the moorlands, where rest