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There was mounting 'mong Græmes of LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTS

MAN. the Netherby clan; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they My hawk is tired of perch and hood, rode and they ran;

My idle greyhound loathes his food, There was racing and chasing on Canno- My horse is weary of his stall, bie Lea,

And I am sick of captive thrall. But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did I wish I were as I have been, they see!

Hunting the hart in forests green, So daring in love, and so dauntless in With bended how and bloodhound free, war,

For that's the life is meet for me.
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young

I hate to learn the ebb of time
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,

Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,

Inch after inch, along the wall.
An! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The lark was wont my matins ring, The sun has left the lea,

The sable rook my vespers sing; The orange-flower perfumes the bower,

These towers, although a king's they be, The breeze is on the sea.

Have not a hall of joy for me.
The lark, his lay who trilled all day,
Sits hushed his partner nigh;

No more at dawning morn I rise,
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
But where is County Guy?

Drive the fleet deer the forest through,

And homeward wend with evening dew; The village inaid steals through the shade A blithesome welcome blithely meet, Her shepherd's suit to hear;

And lay my trophies at her feet, To Beauty shy, by lattice high,

While fled the eve on wing of glee, Sings high-born Cavalier.

That life is lost to love and me!
The star of Love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know,-

But where is County Guy ?

The western waves of ebbing day
Rolled o'er the glen their level way;

Each purple peak, each flinty spire,

Was bathed in floods of living fire. "A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, But not a setting beam could glow A weary lot is thine!

Within the dark ravines below, To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, Where twined the path, in shadow hid, And press the rue for wine!

Round many a rocky pyramid, A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, Shooting abruptly from the dell A feather of the blue,

Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; A doublet of the Lincoln-green,

Round many an insulated mass,
No more of me you knew,

The native bulwarks of the pass,
My love!

Huge as the tower which builders vain No more of me you knew.

Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain.

Their rocky summits, split and rent, "This morn is merry June, I trow, Formed turret, dome, or battlement, The rose is budding fain;

Or seemed fantastically set But she shall bloom in winter snow With cupola or minaret, Ere we two meet again.”

Wild crests as pagod ever decked, He turned his charger as he spake, Or mosque of Eastern architect. l'pon the river shore;

Nor were these earth-born castles bare, He gave his bridle-reins a shake,

Nor lacked they many a banner fair ; Said, “Adieu forevermore,

For, from their shivered brows displayed, My love!

Far o'er the unfathomable glade, And adieu forevermore."

All twinkling with the dew-drop sheen,

The brier-rose fell in streamers green, Loch-Katrine lay heneath him rolled; And creeping shrubs of thousand dyes, In all her length far winding lay, Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. With promontory, creek, and bay,

And islands that, empurpled bright, Boon nature scattered, free and wild, Floated amid the livelier light; Each plantorflower, the mountain's child. And mountains, that like giants stand, Here eglantine embalmed the air, To sentinel enchanted land. Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; High on the south, huge Ben-venue The primrose pale, and violet flower, Down to the lake in masses threw Found in each clits a narrow bower; Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly Foxglove and nightshade, side by side, hurled, Emblems of punishment and pride, The fragments of an earlier world; Grouped their dark hues with every stain, A wildering forest feathered o'er The weather-beaten crags retain.

His ruined sides and summit hoar, With boughs that quaked at every breath, While on the north, through middle air, Gray birch and aspen wept beneath; Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. Aloft, the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the rifted rock;

From the steep promontory gazed And higher yet, the pine-tree hung The stranger, raptured and amazed, His shattered trunk, and frequent Aung, And “What a scene were here,” he cried, Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high, “For princely pomp or churchman's His boughs athwart the narrowed sky.

pride! Highest of all, where white peaks glaneed, On this bold brow, a lordly tower; Where glistening streamers waved and in that soft vale, a lady's bower; danced,

On yonder meadow, far away, The wanderer's eye could barely view

The turrets of a cloister gray; The summer heaven's delicious blue; How blithely might the bugle-horn So wondrous wild, the whole might seem Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn! The scenery of a fairy dream.

How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute, Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep Chime, when the groves are still an: A narrow inlet, still and deep,

Affording scarce such breadth of brim, And when the midnight moon should lave
As served the wild-duck's brood to swim; Her forehead in the silver wave,
Lost for a space, through thickets veering, How solemn on the ear would come
But broader when again appearing: The holy matins' distant hum,
Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face While the deep peal's commanding tone
Could on the dark-blue mirror trace; Should wake, in yonder islet lone,
And farther as the hunter strayed, A sainted hermit from his cell,
Still broadler sweep its channels male. To drop a bead with every knell,
The shaggy mounds no longer stood, And bugle, lute, and bell, and all,
Emerging from entangled wood, Should each bewildered stranger call
But, wave-encircled, seemed to float, To friendly feast and lighted hall."
Like castle girdled with its moat;
Yet broader floods extending still,
Divide them from their parent hill,

Till each, retiring, claims to be
An islet in an inland sea.

He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest, And now, to issue from the glen,

Like a summer-dried fountain,
No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,

When our need was the sorest.
Unless he climb, with footing nice, The font reappearing
A far-projecting precipice.

From the rain-drops shall borrow;
The broom's tough roots his ladder made, But to us comes no cheering,
The hazel saplings lent their aid ;

To Duncan no morrow!
And thus an airy point he won,
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,

The hand of the reaper
One burnished sheet of living gold,

Takes the ears that are hoary,

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