High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid, Till they rolled forth upon the air, END OF CANTO FIRST. TO 49 THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT, M. A. Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. THE scenes are desert now, and bare, Where flourished once a forest fair, When these waste glens with copse were lined, Yon thorn-perchance whose prickly spears *Mountain-ash. in every breeze what aspens shook, What alders shaded every brook. "Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say, "The mighty stag at noontide lay; The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, (The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) With lurching step around me prowl, And stop against the moon to howl; The mountain boar, on battle set, His tusks upon my stem would whet; While doe and roe, and red-deer good, Have bounded by through gay green-wood. Then oft, from Newark's riven tower, Sallied a Scottish monarch's power: A thousand vassals mustered round, With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound; And I might see the youth intent, Guard every pass with cross-bow bent; And through the brake the rangers stalk, And falc'ners hold the ready hawk; And foresters, in green-wood trim, Lead in the leash the gaze-hounds grim, Attentive, as the bratchet's* bay From the dark covert drove the prey, To slip them as he broke away. The startled quarry bounds amain, As fast the gallant gray-hounds strain ; * Slow-hound. |