[_Taken from the Journals of Travel written by Stephen Douglas, sometime
of Culsharg in Galloway_.]

I.

_O mellow rain upon the clover tops;
O breath of morning blown o'er meadow-sweet;
Lush apple-blooms from which the wild bee drops
Inebriate; O hayfield scents, my feet_

_Scatter abroad some morning in July;
O wildwood odours of the birch and pine,
And heather breaths from great red hill-tops nigh,
Than olive sweeter or Sicilian vine_;--

_Not all of you, nor summer lands of balm--
Not blest Arabia,
Nor coral isles in seas of tropic calm.
Such heart's desire into my heart can draw_.

II.

_O scent of sea on dreaming April morn
Borne landward on a steady-blowing wind;
O August breeze, o'er leagues of rustling corn,
Wafts of clear air from uplands left behind_,

_And outbreathed sweetness of wet wallflower bed,
O set in mid-May depth of orchard close,