As Chief who hears his warder call, "To arms! the foemen storm the wall," The antlered monarch of the waste Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. But, ere his fleet career he took,
The dew-drops from his flanks he shook ; Like crested leader proud and high Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky; A moment gazed adown the dale, A moment snuffed the tainted gale, A moment listened to the cry, That thickened as the chase drew nigh; Then, as the headmost foes appeared, With one brave bound the copse he cleared, And, stretching forward free and far, Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.
Yelled on the view the opening pack; Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back; To many a mingled sound at once The awakened mountain gave response. A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, Clattered a hundred steeds along, Their peal the merry horns rung out, A hundred voices joined the shout; With hark and whoop and wild halloo. No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. Far from the tumult fled the roe; Close in her covert cowered the doe; The falcon, from her cairn on high, Cast on the rout a wondering eye, Till far beyond her piercing ken The hurricane had swept the glen. Faint, and more faint, its failing din Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn, And silence settled, wide and still, On the lone wood and mighty hill.
Less loud the sounds of sylvan war Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var, And roused the cavern, where, 't is told, A giant made his den of old; For ere that steep ascent was won, High in his pathway hung the sun, And many a gallant, stayed perforce, Was fain to breathe his faltering horse, And of the trackers of the deer, Scarce half the lessening pack was near; So shrewdly on the mountain-side Had the bold burst their mettle tried.
The noble stag was pausing now Upon the mountain's southern brow, Where broad extended, far beneath, The varied realms of fair Menteith. With anxious eye he wandered o'er Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, And pondered refuge from his toil, By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.
Alone, but with unbated zeal, That horseman piled the scourge and steel; For, jaded now, and spent with toil, Embossed with foam, and dark with soil, While every gasp with sobs he drew, The laboring stag strained full in view. Two dogs of black St. Hubert's breed, Unmatched for courage, breath, and speed, Fast on his flying traces came,
And all but won that desperate game; For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch, Vindictive toiled the bloodhounds stanch; Nor nearer might the dogs attain, Nor farther might the quarry strain. Thus up the margin of the lake, Between the precipice and brake, O'er stock and rock their race they take.
The Hunter marked that mountain high, The lone lake's western boundary, And deemed the stag must turn to bay, Where that huge rampart barred the way Already glorying in the prize, Measured his antlers with his eyes; For the death-wound and death-halloo Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew; But thundering as he came prepared, With ready arm and weapon bared, The wily quarry shunned the shock, And turned him from the opposing rock; Then, dashing down a darksome glen, Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, In the deep Trosachs' wildest nook His solitary refuge took.
There, while close couched, the thicket shed Cold dews and wild flowers on his head,
He heard the baffled dogs in vain
Rave through the hollow pass amain, Chiding the rocks that yelled again,
Close on the hounds the hunter came, To cheer them on the vanished game; But, stumbling in the rugged dell, The gallant horse exhausted fell. The impatient rider strove in vain To rouse him with the spur and rein, For the good steed, his labors o'er, Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more; Then, touched with pity and remorse, He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. "I little thought, when first thy rein I slacked upon the banks of Seine, That Highland eagle e'er should feed On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed! Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, That costs thy life, my gallant gray!"
Then through the dell his horn resounds, From vain pursuit to call the hounds. Back limped, with slow and crippled pace, The sulky leaders of the chase; Close to their master's side they pressed, With drooping tail and humbled crest; But still the dingle's hollow throat Prolonged the swelling bugle-note. The owlets started from their dream, The eagles answered with their scream, Round and around the sounds were cast, Till echo seemed an answering blast; And on the Hunter hied his way, To join some comrades of the day; Yet often paused, so strange the road, So wondrous were the scenes it showed.
LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN.
My hawk is tired of perch and hood, My idle greyhound loathes his food, My horse is weary of his stall, And I am sick of captive thrall. I wish I were as I have been, Hunting the hart in forest green, With bended bow and bloodhound free, For that's the life is meet for me.
I hate to learn the ebb of time From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl, Inch after inch, along the wall. The lark was wont my matins ring, The sable rook my vespers sing; These towers, although a king's they be, Have not a hall of joy for me.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, | Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the glancing bright; distant plains;
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for
JINGLE, jingle, clear the way, 'Tis the merry, merry sleigh, As it swiftly scuds along Hear the burst of happy song, See the gleam of glances bright, Flashing o'er the pathway white. Jingle, jingle, past it flies, Sending shafts from hooded eyes, Roguish archers, I'll be bound, Little heeding who they wound; See them, with capricious pranks, Ploughing now the drifted banks; Jingle, jingle, mid the glee Who among them cares for me? Jingle, jingle, on they go, Capes and bonnets white with snow, Not a single robe they fold To protect them from the cold; Jingle, jingle, mid the storm, Fun and frolic keep them warm; Jingle, jingle, down the hills, O'er the meadows, past the mills, Now 't is slow, and now 't is fast; Winter will not always last. Jingle, jingle, clear the way, 'Tis the merry, merry sleigh.
Who said that I had given thee up? who said Men stop and smile to see her go;
They gaze, they smile in pleased surprise;
'Tis false, 't is false, my Arab steed! I fling They ask her name; they long to show them back their gold! Some silent friendship in their eyes.
JUST in the dubious point, where with the pool Is mixed the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollowed bank Reverted plays in undulating flow, There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly; And, as you lead it round in artful curve, With eye attentive mark the springing game. Straight as above the surface of the flood They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap, Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbéd hook; Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank, And to the shelving shore slow dragging some, With various hand proportioned to their force. If yet too young, and easily deceived,
A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space He has enjoyed the vital light of heaven, Soft disengage, and back into the stream The speckled infant throw. But should you lure From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots
Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook, Behooves you then to ply your finest art. Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly; And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death, With sullen plunge. At once he darts along, Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened line; Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, The caverned bank, his old secure abode ; And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool, Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand, That feels him still, yet to his furious course Gives way, you, now retiring, following now Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage; Till, floating broad upon his breathless side, And to his fate abandoned, to the shore You gayly drag your unresisting prize.
BUT look! o'er the fall see the angler stand, Swinging his rod with skilful hand; The fly at the end of his gossamer line Swims through the sun like a summer moth, Till, dropt with a careful precision fine, It touches the pool beyond the froth. A-sudden, the speckled hawk of the brook Darts from his covert and seizes the hook.
Swift spins the reel; with easy slip The line pays out, and the rod like a whip, Lithe and arrowy, tapering, slim,
Is bent to a bow o'er the brooklet's brim, Till the trout leaps up in the sun, and flings The spray from the flash of his finny wings; Then falls on his side, and, drunken with fright,
Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge, Till beached at last on the sandy marge, Where he dies with the hues of the morning light, While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright. The angler in his basket lays The constellation, and goes his
ways. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
THE ANGLER'S TRYSTING-TREE.
SING, Sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Meet the morn upon the lea; Are the emeralds of the spring On the angler's trysting-tree? Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
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