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But nearer was the copsewood gray
That waved and wept on Loch-Achray,
And mingled with the pine-trees blue
On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.
Fresh vigor with the hope returned,
With flying foot the heath he spurned,
Held westward with unwearied race,
And left behind the panting chase.

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 shoak ;
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.

'T were long to tell what steeds gave o'er,
As swept the hunt through Cam bus-more ;
What reins were tightened in despair,
When rose Benledi's ridge in air ;
Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath,
Who shumed to stem the flooded Teith,
For twice that day, from shore to shore,
The gallant stag swam stoutly o’er.
Few were the stragglers, following far,
That reached the lake of Vennachar ;
And when the Brigg of Turk was won,
The headmost horseman rode alone.

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 peaļ 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.

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.

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.

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,

No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee,
That life is lost to love and me!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

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 still 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 !”

THE ARAB TO HIS FAVORITE STEED.

I.

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.

My beautiful ! my beautiful ! that standest meek

ly by, With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and

dark and fiery eye, Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy

wingéd speed ; I may not mount on thee again, - thou 'rt sold,

my Arab steed! Fret not with that impatient hoof, - snuff' not the

breezy wind, The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind; The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master

hath his gold, Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell; thou 'rt

sold, my steed, thou 'rt sold.

II.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN.

Farewell ! those free, untiréd limbs full many a

mile must roam, To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds

the stranger's home ; Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn

and bed prepare, Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's

care ! The morning sun shall dawn again, but never

more with thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where

we were wont to be ; Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the

sandy plain Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me

home again.

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.

III.

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.

Yes, thou must go ! the wild, free breeze, the bril

liant sun and sky, Thy master's house, -- from all of these my exiled

one must fly ; Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy

step become less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy mas

ter's hand to meet.

IV.

V.

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 and light;

his pains !

CAROLINE E. NORTON. And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or

cheer thy speed, Then must I, starting, wake to feel, -thou 'rt sold, my Arab steed!

SLEIGH SONG.

JINGLE, jingle, clear the way, Ah ! rudely, then, unseen by me, some cruel hand

'Tis the merry, merry sleigh,

As it swiftly scuds along may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along

Hear the burst of happy song, thy panting side :

See the gleam of glances bright, And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy

Flashing o'er the pathway white. indignant pain,

Jingle, jingle, past it flies, Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count

Sending shafts from hooded eyes, each starting vein.

Roguish archers, I'll be bound, Will they ill-use thee? If I thought -- but no,

Little heeding who they wound; it cannot be,

See them, with capricious pranks, Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed ; so gentle,

Ploughing now the drifted banks; yet so free :

Jingle, jingle, mid the glee And yet, if haply, when thou 'rt gone, my lonely Who among them cares for me? heart should yearn,

Jingle, jingle, on they go, Can the hand which casts thee from it now com

Capes and bonnets white with snow, mand thee to return ?

Not a single robe they fold
To protect them from the cold ;
Jingle, jingle, mid the storm,

Fun and frolic keep them warm ;
Return / alas ! my Arab steed! what shall thy
master do,

Jingle, jingle, down the hills, When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished

O'er the meadows, past the mills, from his view ?

Now 't is slow, and now 't is fast ; When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and

Winter will not always last. through the gathering tears

Jingle, jingle, clear the way, Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false

'Tis the merry, merry sleigh. mirage appears ; Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary

step alone, Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou

OUR SKATER BELLE.
oft hast borne me on;
And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause Along the frozen lake she comes
and sadly think,

In linking crescents, light and Neet;
It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last The ice-imprisoned Undine hums
I saw him drink!”

A welcome to her little feet.
I see the jaunty hat, the plume

Swerve bird-like in the joyous gale,
When last I saw thee drink! -- Away! the fevered
dream is o'er,

The cheeks lit up to burning bloom, I could not live a day, and know that we should

The young eyes sparkling through the veil. meet no more !

The quick breath parts her laughing lips, They tempted me, my beautiful !

for hunger's The white neck shines through tossing curls ; power is strong,

Her vesture gently sways and dips, They tempted me, my beautiful ! but I have

As on she speeds in shell-like whorls. loved too long Who said that I had given thee up? who said Men stop and smile to see her go ; that thou wast sold ?

They gaze, they smile in pleased surprise ; 'T is 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.

G. W. PETTEE

VI.

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THE ANGLER'S WISH.

I in these flowery meads would be,
These crystal streams should solace me ;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise
1, with my angle, would rejoice,

Sit here, and see the turtle dove
Court his chaste mate to acts of love;

Or, on that bank, feel the west-wind
Breathe health and plenty ; please my mind,
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,
And then washed off by April showers ;

Here, hear my kenna sing a song :
There, see a blackbird feed her young,

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.

JAMES THOMSON.

Or a laverock build her nest;
Here, give my weary spirits rest,
And raise my low-pitched thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love.

Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice;

IZAAK WALTON.

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THE SEASONS.

THE ANGLER.
Or, with my Bryan and a book,
Loiter long days near Shawford brook ;
There sit by him, and eat my meat;

But look ! o'er the fall see the angler stand, There see the sun both rise and set;

Swinging his rod with skilful hand ; There bid good morning to next day ;

The fly at the end of his gossamer line There meditate my time away ;

Swims through the sun like a summer moth, And angle on ; and beg to have

Till, dropt with a careful precision fine,
A quiet passage to a welcome grave.

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

The line pays out, and the rod like a whip,
ANGLING.

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
Just in the dubious point, where with the pool The spray from the flash of his finny wings ;
Is mixed the trembling stream, or where it boils Then falls on his side, and, drunken with fright,
Around the stone, or from the hollowed bank Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge,
Reverted plays in undulating flow,

Till beached at last on the sandy marge,
There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly; Where he dies with the hues of the morning light,
And, as you lead it round in artful curve, While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright.
With eye attentive mark the springing game. The angler in his basket lays
Straight as above the surface of the flood

The constellation, and goes his ways.
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,

THE ANGLER'S TRYSTING-TREE.
A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod,
Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space SING, sweet thrushes, forth and sing !
He has enjoyed the vital light of heaven,

Meet the morn upon the lea ;
Soft disengage, and back into the stream

Are the emeralds of the spring
The speckled infant throw. But should you lure On the angler's trysting-tree ?
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

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