Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/372

 Not far, perchance, this heather throve

(Above fair banks of ferns),

From that green place of stream and grove

That knew the voice of Burns.

Against the radiant river ways

Still waves the noble wood,

Where in the old majestic days

The Scottish poet stood.

Perhaps my heather used to beam

In robes of morning frost,

By dells which saw that lovely dream—

The Mary that he lost.

I hope, indeed, the singer knew

The little spot of land

On which the mountain beauty grew

That withers in my hand.

A Highland sky my vision fills;

I feel the great, strong North—

The hard grey weather of the hills

That brings men-children forth.

The peaks of Scotland, where the din

And flame of thunders go,

Seem near me, with the masculine,

Hale sons of wind and snow.

So potent is this heather here,

That under skies of blue,

I seem to breathe the atmosphere

That William Wallace knew.

And under windy mountain wall,

Where breaks the torrent loose,

I fancy I can hear the call

Of grand old Robert Bruce.