THE DREAM.
51
Where the deer o'er the hills bound, as fleet and as free
As the shaft from the bow, as the wave of the sea;
Where the heather is sweet as the sleep that is found
By the hunter who makes it his bed on the ground;
Where the might of the chieftain goes down to his son,
In numbers as wild as the deeds that are done;
Where the harp has notes caught from the storm and the flood,
When foemen are gathering together in blood;
Yet has others that whisper the maiden, of love,
In tones that re-echo the linnet and dove;
Where the mountain ash guards us from elfin and fay;
Where the broom, spendthrift-like, flings its gold wreath away;
And the harebell shines blue in the depth of the vale.
Oh! dear country of mine, of thee be my tale.
