But nearer was the copse-wood gray, Fresh vigour with the hope return'd, And left behind the panting chase. VI. "Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er, As swept the hunt through Cambus-more; What reins were tighten'd in despair, Who flagg'd upon Bochastle's heath, Who shunn'd to stem the flooded Teith,- And when the Brigg of Turk was won, The headmost Horseman rode alone. VII. Alone, but with unbated zeal, That horseman plied the scourge and steel; For, jaded now, and spent with toil, Emboss'd with foam, and dark with soil, The labouring Stag strain'd full in view. And all but won that desperate game; For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch, Vindictive toil'd the blood-hounds staunch ; 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. VIII. The Hunter mark'd that mountain high, The lone lake's western boundary, And deem'd the Stag must turn to bay, Where that huge rampart barr'd the way; Already glorying in the prize, Measured his antlers with his eyes; For the death-wound, and death-halloo, Then, dashing down a darksome glen, Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, In the deep Trosach's 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 Chiding the rocks that yell'd again. IX. Close on the hounds the hunter came, His gallant horse exhausted fell. "Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, "That costs thy life, my gallant grey !" X. Then through the dell his horn resounds, Close to their master's side they press'd, Till echo seem'd an answering blast; |