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Already glorying in the prize,
Measur'd his antlers with his eyes ;
For the death-wound, and death-halloo,
Muster'd his breath, his whinyard drew;
But, thundering, as he came prepar'd,
With ready arm and weapon bar'd,
The wily quarry shunn'd the shock,
And turn’d 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 couch'd, 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 yell’d again.
Close on the hounds the Hunter came,
To cheer them on the vanish'd 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 labours o'er,
Stretch'd his stiff limbs to rise no more ;
Then touch'd with pity and remorse,
He sorrow'd o'er the expiring horse.
“I little thought, when first thy rein
I slack'd 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 limp’d, with slow and crippled pace,
The sulky leaders of the chase :

Close to their master's side they press’d,
With drooping tail and humbled crest;
But still the dingle’s hollow throat
Prolong'd the swelling bugle-note.
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answer'd with their scream,
Round and around the sounds were cast,
Till echo seem'd an answering blast ;
And on the Hunter hied his

way,
To join some comrades of the day.

W. Scott.

THE FISHERMAN.

A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be,
Hath the lone fisher on the lonely sea,
In the wild waters labouring, far from home,
For some bleak pittance e'er compellid to roam :
Few friends to cheer him through his dangerous life,
And none to aid him in the stormy strife :
Companion of the sea and silent air,
The lonely fisher thus must ever fare;
Without the comfort, hope — with scarce a friend,
He looks through life, and only sees - its end !

Eternal Ocean! old majestic Sea !
Ever love I from shore to look on thee,
And sometimes on thy billowy back to ride,
And sometimes o'er thy summer breast to glide :
But let me live on land - where rivers run,
Where shady trees may screen me from the sun ;
Where I may feel, secure, the fragrant air ;
Where (whate'er toil or wearying pains I bear)

Those eyes which took away all human ill, May shed on me their still, sweet constant light, And the little hearts I love may (day and night) Be found beside me, safe and clustering still !

BARRY CORNWALL. LOVE OF THE COUNTRY.

WELCOME silence ! welcome peace !

O most welcome, holy shade! Thus I prove, as years increase,

My heart and soul for quiet made. Thus I fix my firm belief,

While rapture's gushing tears descend, That every flower and leaf

Is moral truth's unerring friend. I would not for a world of gold

That nature's lovely face should tire; Fountain of blessings yet untold;

Pure source of intellectual fire! Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,

Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife, Shall sweet retirement render strong,

And morning silence bring to life.

Then tell me not that I shall grow

Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy ;
From Nature and her changes flow

An everlasting tide of joy.
I grant that summer heats will burn,

That keen will come the frosty night,
But both shall please ; and each in turn

Yield reason's most supreme delight.

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel

To rural gods, or prostrate fall ; Did I not see, did I not feel,

That one Great Spirit governs all.
O Heav'n permit that I may lie

Where o'er my corse green branches wave;
And those who from life's tumult fly
With kindred feelings press my grave.

BLOOMFIELD. ALEXANDER AND PHILIP.

He stood by the river's side,

A conqueror and a king,
None match'd his step of pride

Amid the armed ring.
And a heavy echo rose from the ground,
As a thousand warriors gather'd round.

And the morning march had been long,

And the noontide sun was high,
And weariness bow'd down the strong,

And heat clos'd every eye;
And the victor stood by the river's brim,
Whose coolness I seem'd but made for him.

The cypress spread their gloom

Like a cloak from the noontide beam,
He flung back his dusty plume,

And plung'd in the silver stream ;
He plung'd like the young steed, fierce and wild,
He was borne away like the feeble child.

They took the king to his tent

From the river's fatal banks,
A
cry

of terror went

Like a storm through the Grecian ranks : Was this the fruit of their glories won ? Was this the death for Ammon's son?

| The river Cydnus was celebrated for its coolness in the summer heats, coming, in rapid course, from snow-topped mountains. The anecdote which forms the subject of this poem is too well known to repeat.

Many a leech heard the call,

But each one shrank away ;
For heavy upon all

Was the weight of fear that day :
When a thought of treason, a word of death,
Was in each eye, and on each breath.

But one with the royal youth

Had been from his earliest hour,
And he knew that his heart was truth,

And he knew that his hand was power ;
He gave what hope his skill might give,
And bade him trust to his faith, and live.

Alexander took the cup,

And from beneath his head a scroll,
He drank the liquor up,

And bade Philip read the roll;
And Philip look'd on the page, where shame,
Treason, and poison, were nam’d with his name.

An angry flush rose on his brow,

And anger darken’d his eye :
What I have done I would do again now !
If

you trust my fidelity.
The king watch'd his face, he felt he might dare
Trust the faith that was written there.

Next day the conqueror rose,

From a greater conqueror free ;
And again he stood amid those

Who had died his death to see :
He stood there proud of the lesson he gave,
That faith and trust were made for the brave.

Miss LANDON.

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