Here mark how rang'd in order'd row
The sturdy drovers slowly go,

And rouse the deer with strange surprise

From out their green-wood galleries;

There, listening to his coming foes,

The stag aloft his antlers throws,

And, proud in strength and ripen'd years,
Would fain defy the sound he fears;

And see! where at his utmost need,
Vain every art and vain his speed,
He turns to meet the peril nigh,
And gathers all his strength to die.
Before yon oak, whose aged form
Still mocks the raving of the storm,
He firmly plants his desperate stand,

And menaces the hunter-band.

How wild his eye-ball's fiery glare!

Let man, and hound, and horse beware!

While sore beset from head to heel,

The clamorous pack around him wheel;
Now fiercely urge their joint attack,

Now reel repuls'd and wounded back;
Till, hark! the treble mort is blown,
That drowns the victim's dying groan,
And the loud whoop to hill and plain

Proclaims the stout Hart-Royal slain.

Where towering hills, with heath imbrown'd,

O'er Cheviot's inmost fastness frown'd,

Skirted with ranks of gloomy fir,

And fring'd with pointed juniper,
Darksome and deep a valley lay,

Where scarce the fervid noontide ray

Illumines many a cool alcove,

By shrubs and clustering branches wove;

So clearly where the river stream

Reflects the scene, you well might deem

It shew'd not on its polish'd face

An image of terrestrial grace ;

But to the favour'd vision gave

A paradise beneath the wave;
Some blissful bower, or fairy reign,
Envelop'd long from eyes profane.

To that bright stream's romantic shore
Their various game the yeomen bore ;
Sad spoils of that ill-fated day,

A hundred deer together lay;

The chiefest head of hart and hind,

That roam'd o'er Cheviot's hills of wind.

D

J

'Twas there, to view the tender game,

Earl Percy to the quarry came;

And mustering there from side to side,

The jolly hunters gladly hied;

With loitering march and merry din

The weary throngs came trooping in,
And sought with speed the pleasant screen

Of shady grove and arbour green ;
Beneath their canopy of boughs,

To share the feast and gay carouse,
Till quickening gales refresh the day
And call them to their sylvan prey
Thro' fields and forests far away.

THE FEAST.

FAIR art thou, midst thy realms of air,

Son of the morning! thou art fair ;

As rolling back the mists of night,

With conquering floods of crimson light, Thou marchest forth, in godlike state,

From out thy golden eastern gate,

Like a strong giant, flush'd with wine,

To run that heavenly race of thine.
What hand may veil thy living rays,

What eye endure thine ardent blaze,
Against thy might what heart rebel,

And where thou art can darkness dwell?—