Blooms there on moorland, hill, or dale,
A flower more fair than this?
Sweet as the Lover's honey'd tale,
Or Love's enrapture'd kiss.
I love it, for it clothes the wild,
And breathes its fragrance there,
Pure, as the maiden undefiled,
As beautiful and fair.
How passing sweet to spend an hour,
When loving hearts are link'd together,
To feel Love's sweet ecstatic power,
And fondly roll among the heather,
Be chaste as this - ne'er smile jocose,
On any heartless, sly heart-robber,
Accept it then, if not a Pose,
'Twill make at least a gaudy Scrubber.