Away on rustling pinions to the sky,
Wheel round and round in many an airy ring,
Then swooping downward to their covert hie,
And, lodged beneath the heath again securely lie.
Ascend yon hoary rock's impending brow,
And on its windy summit take your stand—
Lo! Wilsill's lovely vale extends below,
And long, long heathy moors on either hand
Stretch dark and misty—a bleak tract of land,
Whereon but seldom human footsteps come;