On the lone wood and mighty hill.
Less loud the sounds of sylvan war
Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var,

And roused the cavern, where 'tis told,
A giant made his den of old;

For ere that steep ascent was won,
High in his pathway hung the sun,
And many a gallant, stayed perforce,
Was fain to breathe his faltering horse.
And of the trackers of the deer,
Scarce half the lessening pack was near;
So shrewdly, on the mountain-side,
Had the bold burst their mettle tried.

The noble stag was pausing now
Upon the mountain's southern brow,
Where broad extended, far beneath,
The varied realms of fair Monteith
With anxious eye he wandered o'er
Mountain and meadow, moss and moor,
And pondered refuge from his toil,
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.
But nearer was the copsewood gray
That waved and wept on Loch-Achray,
And mingled with the pine trees blue
On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.
Fresh vigor with the hope returned,
With flying foot the heath he spurned,
Held westward with unwearied race,
And left behind the panting chase.

'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er,
As swept the hunt through Cambus-more;
What reins were tightened in despair,
When rose Ben Lodi's ridge in air;
Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath,
Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith,-
For twice that day, from shore to shore,
The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er.
Few were the stragglers, following far,
That reached the lake of Vennachar;
And when the Brigg of Turk was won,
The headmost horseman rode alone.

Alone, but with unabated zeal,
That horseman plied the scourge and steel;
For, jaded now, and spent with toil,
Embossed with foam, and dark with soil,
While every gasp with sobs he drew,
The laboring stag strained full in view.
Two dogs of black St. Hubert's breed,
Unmatched for courage, breath, and speed,
Fast on his flying traces came,

And all but won that desperate game;

For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch,
Vindictive toiled the bloodhounds stanch;

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.

The hunter marked that mountain high,
The lone lake's western boundary,
And deemed the stag must turn to bay,
Where that huge rampart barred the way;
Already glorying in the prize,
Measured his antlers with his eyes;

For the death-wound and death halloo
Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew;
But thundering as he came prepared,
With ready arm and weapon bared,
The wily quarry shunned the shock,
And turned 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 crouched, 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 yelled again.
Close on the hounds the hunter came,
To cheer them on the vanished 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 labors o'er,
Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more;
Then, touched with pity and remorse,
He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse:
"I little thought, when first thy rein
I slacked upon the banks of Seine
That Highland eagle e'er should feed
On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed,
Wo worth the chase, wo 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 limped, with slow and crippled pace
The sulky leaders of the chase;
Close to their master's side they pressed
With drooping tail and humbled crest;

S

WEET country life, to such unknown
Whose lives are others, not their own;

But, serving courts and cities, be

Less happy, less enjoying thee.
Thou never plow'st the ocean's foame
To seek and bring rough pepper home;
Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove

To bring from thence the scorched clove;
Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the West;
No, thy ambitious masterpiece
Flies no thought higher than a fleece;
Or to pay thy hinds, and cleere
All scores, and so to end the yeare;
But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,
Not envying others' larger grounds;
For well thou know'st, 'tis not the extent
Of land makes life, but sweet content.
When now the cock, the plowman's horne,
Calls forth the lily-wristed morne;
Then to thy cornfields thou dost go,
Which, though well soyl'd, yet thou dost know

That the best compost for the lands
Is the wise master's feet and hands:
There at the plow thou find'st thy teame,
With a hind whistling there to them;
And cheer'st them up, by singing how
The kingdom's portion is the plow;
This done, then to the enameled meads
Thou go'st, and as thy foot there treads,
Thou seest a present godlike power
Imprinted in each herbe and flower;
And smell'st the breath of a great-eyed kine,
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine:
Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat
Unto the dewlaps up in meat;

And as thou look'st, the wanton steere,
The heifer, cow and oxe draw neare,
To make a pleasing pastime there:
These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks
Of sheep. safe from the wolf and fox,
And find'st their bellies there as full

Of short, sweet grass, as backs with wool;
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,

A shepherd piping on a hill.
For sports, for pageantrie, and playes,
Thou hast thy eves and holydayes;

On which the young men and maids meet
To exercise their dancing feet,
Tripping the comely country round,
With daffodils and daisies crowned.
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,
Thy May poles, too, with garlands grac't,
Thy Morris dance, thy Whitsun ale,
Thy shearing feast, which never faile,
Thy harvest home, thy wassail bowle,
That's tost up after fox i' th' hole,
Thy mummeries, thy twelf-tide kings
And queenes, thy Christmas revelings,
Thy nut-browne mirth, thy russet wit,

And no man pays too deare for it;
To these thou hast thy times to goe,
And trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow;
Thy witty wiles to draw and get
The larke into the trammel net:
Thou hast thy cockrood and thy glade
To take the precious pheasant made;
Thy lime twigs, snares, and pitfalls then
To catch the pilfering birds, not men.
O happy life! if that their good
The husbandmen but understood:
Who all the day themselves do please,

And younglings, with such sports as these;
And, lying down, have nought to affright
Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.
-Robert Herrick.

R

ISE! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn. The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn, And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound Under the steaming, steaming ground. Behold where the billowy clouds flow by, And leave us alone in the clear gray sky! Our horses are ready and steady. So, ho! I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow. Hark, hark! Who calleth the maiden Morn From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn? The horn-the horn

The merry, sweet ring of the hunter's horn.

Now through the copse where the fox is found,
And over the stream at a mighty bound,
And over the high lands, and over the low,
O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go!
Away! as a hawk flies full at its prey,
So Bieth the hunter, away-away!

From the burst at the cover till set of sun,
When the red fox dies, and—the day is done!
Hark, hark! What sound on the wind is borne?
'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn!
The horn-the horn!

The merry, bold voice of the hunter's horn.
Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good
What's the gully deep or the roaring flood?
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
O, what delight can a mortal lack,
When he once is firm on his horse's back,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning song?
Hark, hark! Now, home! and dream till morn
Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter's horn!
The horn - the horn!

O, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn!
-Bryan W. Proctor (Barry Cornwall.)

Ο

H! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last
gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the per-
ilous fight,
[streaming :
O'er the rampart we watched were so gallantly
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
Oh! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;

'Tis the star-spangled banner! oh, long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave! And where is that band, who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave,
From the terror of death and the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!
-Francis Scott Key.

WHE

'HEN Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there!
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure celestial white
With streakings of the morning light.
Then, from his mansion in the sun,
She called her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land!

Majestic monarch of the cloud!

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,
When strive the warriors of the storm,

And see the lightning lances driven,
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven-
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given
To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high!
When speaks the signal-trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on,
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet;
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn,