IV.

Lo, when clover-swathes lay round him, Or his feet the furrow press'd, He could mourn the sever'd daisy, Or the mouse's ruin'd nest; Woven of gloom and glory, visions Haunting throng'd his twilight hour; Birds enthrall'd him with sweet music, Tempests with their tones of power; Eagle-wing'd his mounting spirit Custom's rusty fetters spurn'd; Tasso-like, for Jean he melted Wallace-like, for Scotland burn'd!