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But nearer was the copsewood gray
As Chief who hears his warder call,
'T were long to tell what steeds gave o'er,
Yelled on the view the opening pack ;
Alone, but with unbated zeal,
Less loud the sounds of sylvan war
The Hunter marked that mountain high,
No more at dawning morn I rise,
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
THE ARAB TO HIS FAVORITE STEED,
He heard the baffled dogs in vain
My beautiful ! my beautiful ! that standest meek
ly by, With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and
dark and fiery eye, Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy
wingéd speed ; I may not mount on thce again, - Thou 'rt sold,
my Arab steed! Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the
breezy wind, The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind ; The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, — thy ma ter
hath his gold, Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell; thou 'rt
sold, my steed, thou 'rt sold.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN.
Farewell ! those free, untiréd limbs full many a
mile must roam, To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds
the stranger's home ; Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn
and bed prepare, Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's
care ! The morning sun shall dawn again, but never
more with thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where
we were wont to be ; Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the
sandy plain Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me
My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
I hate to learn the ebb of time
Yes, thou must go ! the wild, free breeze, the bril
liant sun and sky, Thy master's house, - from all of these my exiled
one must fly; Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy
step become less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy mas
ter's hand to meet.
CAROLINE E. NORTON.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, | Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the glancing bright;
distant plains ; Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for and light;
his pains ! And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or
cheer thy speed,
JINGLE, jingle, clear the way,
'T is the merry, merry sleigh,
As it swiftly scuds along may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along
Hear the burst of hapry song, thy panting side :
See the gleam of glances bright, And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy
Flashing o'er the pathway white. indignant pain,
Jingle, jingle, past it flies, Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count
Sending shafts from hooded eyes, each starting vein.
Roguish archers, I'll be bound, Will they ill-use thee? If I thought — but no,
Little heeding who they wound; it cannot be,
See them, with capricious pranks, Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed ; so gentle,
Ploughing now the drifted banks; yet so free :
Jingle, jingle, mid the glee And yet, if haply, when thou 'rt gone, my lonely
Who among them cares for me? heart should yearn,
Jingle, jingle, on they go, Can the hand which casts thee from it now com
Capes and bonnets white with snow, mand thee to return ?
Not a single robe they fold
Jingle, jingle, mid the storm,
Fun and frolic keep them warm : master do,
Jingle, jingle, down the hills, When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished
O'er the meadows, past the mills, from his view ?
Now 't is slow, and now 't is fast ; When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and
Winter will not always last. through the gathering tears
Jingle, jingle, clear the way, Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false
'Tis the merry, merry sleigh. mirage appears ; Slow and unmounted shall I roam,
weary step alone, Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou
OUR SKATER BELLE. oft hast borne me on ; And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause Along the frozen lake she comes and sadly think,
In linking crescents, light and fleet;
A welcome to her little feet.
Swerve bird-like in the joyous gale,
The cheeks lit up to burning bloom, I could not live a day, and know that we should
The young eyes sparkling through the veil. meet no more !
The quick breath parts her laughing lips, They tempted me, my beautiful ! for hunger's The white neck shines through tossing curls; power is strong,
Her vesture gently sways and dips, They tempted me, my beautiful ! but I have
As on she speeds in shell-like whorls. loved too long Who said that I had given thee up? who said Men stop and smile to see her go ; that thou wast sold ?
They gaze, they smile in pleased surprise ; "T is false, — 't is false, my Arab steed ! I fling They ask her name; they long to show them back their gold !
Some silent friendship in their eyes.
G. W. PETTEE.
0, might I like those breezes be,
And touch that arching brow, I'd dwell forever on the sea
Where ye are floating now.
The boat goes tilting on the waves ;
The waves go tilting by ; There dips the duck, her back she laves ;
O'erhead the sea-gulls fly.
Now, like the gulls that dart for prey,
The little vessel stoops ;
Like them, in easy swoops.
The sunlight falling on her sheet,
It glitters like the drift,
High up some mountain rift.
The winds are fresh ; she's driving fast
Upon the bending tide ;
Go with her side by side.
Why dies the breeze away so soon ?
Why hangs the pennant down? The sea is glass ; the sun at noon.
Nay, lady, do not frown ;
For, see, the wingéd fisher's plume
Is painted on the sea ;
Whose eyes look up to thee.
She smiles ; thou need'st must smile on her.
And, see, beside her face
What beauty, and what grace !
And pictured beach of yellow sand,
And peakéd rock and hill,
How lovely and how still !
From that far isle the thresher's flail
Strikes close upon the ear ;
Of yonder sloop, sound near.
The parting sun sends out a glow
Across the placid bay,
A breeze ! Up helm ! Away!
With laugh and call, the shore. They've left their footprints on the beach,
But them I hear no more.
RICHARD HENRY DANA
THE ANGLER'S WISH.
Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behooves you then to ply your finest art. I in these flowery meads would be,
Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly; These crystal streams should solace me;
And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft To whose harmonious bubbling noise
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. 1, with my angle, would rejoice,
At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun Sit here, and see the turtle-dove
Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death, Court his chaste mate to acts of love; With sullen plunge. At once he darts along,
Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened line; Or, on that bank, feel the west-wind
Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, Breathe health and plenty ; please my mind,
The cavemed bank, his old secure abode ; To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, And flies aloft, and Hounces round the pool, And then washed off by April showers ;
Indignaut of the guile. With yielding hand, Here, hear my kenna sing a song :
That feels him still, yet to his furious course There, see a blackbird feed her young,
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now
Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage ; Or a laverock build her nest;
Till, floating broad upon his breathless side, Here, give my weary spirits rest,
And to his fate abandoned, to the shore And raise my low-pitched thoughts above
You gayly drag your unresisting prize.
JAMES THOMSON, Earth, or what poor mortals love.
Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise
But look ! o'er the fall see the angler stand, There see the sun both rise and set;
Swinging his rod with skilful hand ; There bid good morning to next day ;
The fly at the end of his gossamer line There meditate my time away ;
Swims through the sun like a summer moth, And angle on; and beg to have
Till, dropt with a careful precision fine,
It touches the pool beyond the froth.
The line pays out, and the rod like a whip,
Lithe and arrowy, tapering, slim,
Till the trout leaps up in the sun, and flings
Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge, Reverted plays in undulating flow,
Till beached at last on the sandy marge, There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly; Where he dies with the hues of the morning light, And, as you lead it round in artful curve, While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright. With eye attentive mark the springing game. The angler in his basket lays Straight as above the surface of the flood The constellation, and goes his ways. They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap, Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbéd hook ; Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank, And to the shelving shore slow dragging some, With various hand proportioned to their force. If yet too young, and easily deceived,
THE ANGLER'S TRYSTING-TREE. A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space SING, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! He has enjoyed the vital light of heaven,
Meet the morn upon the lea ;
Are the emeralds of the spring
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.