Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Pheasant

The Pheasant.

Close by the borders of the fringèd lake,And on the oak's expanded bough, is seen,What time the leaves the passing zephyrs shake,And gently murmur through the sylvan scene,The gaudy Pheasant, rich in varying dyes,That fade alternate, and alternate glow:Receiving now his colour from the skies,And now reflecting back the watery bow.He flaps his wings, erects his spotless crest,His flaming eyes dart forth a piercing ray;He swells the lovely plumage of his breast,And glares a wonder of the Orient day.