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 herdman fall,

6 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,
Draws 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' sacred 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 clamour 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 listen'd 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 spirit's harden'd tool! Scorner of God! scourge of the poor! The measure of thy cup is full. Be chased for ever through the wood, For ever 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 forests brown; Up rose the wildgrave's bristling hair,

And horror chill'd each nerve and bone. Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill; A rising wind began to sing;

And louder, louder, louder still,

Brought storm and tempest on its wing.

VOL. VI.

M M

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!
With wild despair's reverted eye,
Close, close behind he marks the throng,
With bloody fangs, and eager cry;
In frantic fear he scours along.

Still, still shall last the dreadful chase,
Till time itself shall have an end;
By day they scour earth's cavern'd space,
At midnight's witching hour ascend.

This is the horn, and hounds, and horse,
That oft the lated peasant hears:
Appall'd, he signs the frequent cross,
When the wild din invades his ears.

The wakeful priest oft drops a tear
For human pride, for human woe,
When at his midnight mass he hears
The infernal cry of holla, ho!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

ILLUSIONS OF YOUTH.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

COMPANIONS of my earlier years,
For ever faithless will ye fly,

With all your train of hopes and fears,
Aspiring thoughts and warm desires,
Creative Fancy's magic fires

That warm'd my opening mind with distant scenes

Imagination's airy train,

Can nought your hasty flight retain?

Ah! never, never shall I see

Those visions of my early prime;

Swept by the ruthless storms of time,

Lost in the ocean of eternity.

And are those suns for ever set in night,

[of joy?

That spread their lustre o'er my dawning day?
Those cherish'd visions of supreme delight
So oft invoked, no longer will they stay?
Each wish that fired my inexperienced mind,
And promised bliss and purity below,
Say, must it still in reason find a foe,
And leave a dull and dreary void behind?

As once the sculptured image fired
Pygmalion with an amorous flame,
Till breath and genial life inspired
The marble's cold and senseless frame;
So Nature to my opening soul

Appear'd in all her charms array'd,
Imagination lent her aid,

And mimic life inspired the wondrous whole.