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!