Again uproused, the timorous prey

Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill;
Hard run, he feels his strength decay,
And trusts for life his simple skill.

Too dangerous solitude appear'd;
He seeks the shelter of the crowd;
Amid the flock's domestic herd

His harmless head he hopes to shroud.

O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill,
His track the steady bloodhounds trace;
O'er moss and moor, unwearied still,
The furious Earl pursues the chase.

Full lowly did the herdsman fall;
"Oh spare, thou noble Baron, spare
These herds, a widow's little all;
These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care!"

Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads,
The left still cheering to the prey;
The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds,
But furious keeps the onward way.

"Unmanner'd dog! To stop my sport
Vain were thy cant and beggar whine,
Though human spirits of thy sort

Were tenants of these carrion kine!"

Again he winds his bugle horn,

"Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!" And through the herd in ruthless scorn He cheers his furious hounds to go.

In heaps the throttled victims fall;

Down sinks their mangled herdsman near;
The murderous cries the stag appal,-
Again he starts new-nerved by fear.

With blood besmear'd, and white with foam,
While big the tears of anguish pour,
He seeks amid the forest's gloom

The humble hermit's hallow'd bower.

But man, and horse, and horn, and hound,
Fast rattling on his traces go;

The sacred chapel rung around

With "Hark away! and holla, ho!"

All mild amid the rout profane,

The holy hermit pour'd his prayer;
"Forbear with blood God's house to stain;
Revere His altar and forbear!

"The meanest brute has rights to plead,
Which, wrong'd by cruelty or pride,
Draw vengeance on the ruthless head;-
Be warn'd at length, and turn aside."

Still the fair horseman anxious pleads;
The black, wild whooping, points the prey:
Alas! the Earl no warning heeds,

But frantic keeps the forward way.

"Holy or not, or right or wrong,

Thy altar and its rights I spurn; Not sainted martyrs' sainted song,

Not God Himself shall make me turn!"

He spurs his horse, he winds his horn,
"Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!"
But off on whirlwind's pinions borne,
The stag, the hut, the hermit go.

And horse, and man, and horn, and hound,
And clamor of the chase was gone;
For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound,
A deadly silence reign'd alone.

Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around;
He strove in vain to wake his horn;
In vain to call; for not a sound
Could from his anxious lips be borne.

He listens for his trusty hounds;
No distant baying reach'd his ears;
His courser, rooted to the ground,
The quickening spur unmindful bears.

Still dark and darker frown the shades,
Dark, as the darkness of the grave;

And not a sound the still invades,

Save what a distant torrent gave.

High o'er the sinner's humbled head

At length the solemn silence broke ;
And from a cloud of swarthy red,
The awful voice of thunder spoke:

"Oppressor of creation fair!
Apostate spirits' harden'd tool;
Scorner of God, scourge of the poor!
The measure of thy cup is full.

"Be chased forever through the wood :
Forever roam the affrighted wild;
And let thy fate instruct the proud,
God's meanest creature is His child."

Twas hush'd: one flash of sombre glare
With yellow tinged the forest's brown;
Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair,

And horror chill'd each nerve and bone.

Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rili;
A rising wind began to sing;
A louder, louder, louder still,

Brought storm and tempest on its wing.

Earth heard the call; her entrails rend;
From yawning rifts,† with many a yell,
Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend
The misbegotten dogs of hell.

What ghastly huntsman next arose,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell;
His eye like midnight lightning glows,
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.

The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn,
With many a shriek of helpless woe;
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn;
And "Hark away! and holla, ho!"

Sir W. Scott.

* Apostate, fallen, rebellious.

Rift, opening, cleft.

MEN OF ENGLAND.

MEN of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood!
Men whose undegenerate* spirit
Has been proved on land and flood:

By the foes you've fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye've done,
Trophies captured-breachest mounted,
Navies conquer'd-kingdoms won!

Yet remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the freedom of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail, in lands of slavery,
Trophied temples, arch and tomb?

Pageants!-let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws
And the breasts of civic heroes
Bared in freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,
Sydney's matchless shade is yours,-
Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Agincourts![]

We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crown'd and mitred tyranny:

:

They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights-so will we!

Thos. Campbell.

*Undegenerate, not having become worse. Breaches, gaps made in a fort by besiegers.

Pageants, pompous shows.

Civic, belonging to the city or state.

i.e., fruitless French wars.

Tales of Adventure.

IV.