Where the poor dizzy shepherd crawls with care,
And clings to every twig, gives us no pain,
But down we sweep, as stoops the falcon bold
To pounce his prey then up the opponent hill,
By the swift motion flung, we mount aloft.
So ships, in winter seas, now sliding sink
Adown the steepy wave; then, tossed on high,
Ride on the billows, and defy the storm.

SPORTSMEN DISTANCED IN THE CHASE; THE SPENT HORSE;
HIS CRUEL DEATH; VARIOUS PLIGHTS.

What lengths we pass ! where will the wandering chase

Lead us bewildered! Smooth as swallows skim
The new-shorn mead, and far more swift, we fly.
See my brave pack! how to the head they press,
Jostling in close array, then more diffuse
Obliquely wheel; while from their opening mouths
The volleyed thunder breaks. So when the cranes
Their annual voyage steer, with wanton wing
Their figure oft they change, and their loud clang
From cloud to cloud rebounds. How far behind
The hunter crew, wide straggling o'er the plain!
The panting courser now with trembling nerves
Begins to reel; urged by the goring spur,
Makes many a faint effort; he snorts, he foams;
The big round drops run trickling down his sides,
With sweat and blood distained. Look back and
The strange confusion of the vale below,
Where sore vexation reigns; see yon poor jade;
In vain the impatient rider frets and swears,
And galling spurs harrow his mangled sides;
He can no more; his stiff, unpliant limbs
Rooted in earth, unmoved and fixed he stands;
For every cruel curse returns a groan,

[view

And sobs, and faints, and dies! Who without grief
Can view that pampered steed, his master's joy,
His minion, and his daily care, well clothed,
Well fed with every nicer care; no cost,
No labor spared; who, when the flying chase
Broke from the copse, without a rival led
The numerous train; now a sad spectacle
Of pride brought low, and humbled insolence,
Drove like a panniered ass, and scourged along!
While these, with loosened reins and dangling heels,
Hang on their reeling palfreys, that scarce bear
Their weights; another in the treacherous bog
Lies floundering, half ingulfed. What biting
thoughts

Torment the abandoned crew! Old age laments
His vigor spent; the tall, plump, brawny youth
Curses his cumbrous bulk, and envies now
The short, pygmean race he whilome kenned
With proud, insulting leer. A chosen few
Alone the sport enjoy, nor droop beneath
Their pleasing toils.

THE FOX IN VIEW AGAIN; HIS SHIFTS; CAUGHT, KILLED, AND
DEVOURED. THE FARMER'S CONGRATULATORY TREAT.

Here, huntsman ! from this height

Observe yon birds of prey if I can judge,
"T is there the villain lurks; they hover round,

Was I not right? his brush he drags,

And claim him as their own.
See! there he creeps along;
And sweeps the mire impure; from his wide jaws
His tongue unmoistened hangs; symptoms too sure
Of sudden death. Ha! yet he flies, nor yields
To black despair. But one loose more, and all
His wiles are vain. Hark! through yon village now
The rattling clamor rings. The barns, the cots,
And leafless elms, return the joyous sounds.
Through every homestall, and through every yard,
His midnight walks, panting, forlorn, he flies ;
Through every hole he sneaks, through every jakes
Plunging, he wades besmeared, and fondly hopes
In a superior stench to lose his own;
But, faithful to the track, the unerring hounds
With peals of echoing vengeance close pursue.

And now distressed, no sheltering covert near,
[To] the henroost [he] creeps, whose walls, with gore
Distained, attest his guilt. There, villain! there
Expect thy fate deserved. And soon from thence
The pack, inquisitive, with clamor loud,
Drag out their trembling prize, and on his blood
With greedy transport feast. In bolder notes
Each sounding horn proclaims the felon dead,
And all the assembled village shouts for joy.
The farmer, who beholds his mortal foe
Stretched at his feet, applauds the glorious deed,
And, grateful, calls us to a short repast;
In the full glass the liquid amber smiles,
Our native product; and his good old mate
With choicest viands heaps the liberal board,
To crown our triumphs, and reward our toils. *

THE OTTER-HUNT. — HABITS OF THE OTTER.

One labor yet remains, celestial maid! Another element demands thy song.

No more o'er craggy steeps, through coverts thick
With pointed thorn and briers intricate,

Urge on with horn and voice the painful pack,
But skim with wanton wing the irriguous vale,
Where winding streams amid the flowery meads
Perpetual glide along, and undermine
The caverned banks, by the tenacious roots
Of hoary willows arched, gloomy retreat
Of the bright scaly kind, where they at will
On the green watery reed, their pasture, graze ;
Suck the moist soil, or slumber at their ease,
Rocked by the restless brook that draws aslope
Its humid train, and laves their dark abodes.
Where rages not oppression? where, alas!
Is innocence secure? Rapine and spoil
Haunt e'en the lowest deeps; scas have their sharks,
Rivers and ponds enclose the ravenous pike;
He in his turn becomes a prey, on him

The crimson-spotted trout, the river's pride,
And beauty of the stream. Without remorse
This midnight pillager, raging around,
Insatiate, swallows all. The owner mourns
The unpeopled rivulet, and gladly hears
The huntsman's early call, and sees with joy
The jovial crew, that march upon its banks
In gay parade, with bearded lances armed.
This subtle spoiler, of the beaver kind,
Far off, perhaps, where ancient alders shade
The deep, still pool, within some hollow trunk
Contrives his wicker couch, whence he surveys
His long purlieu, lord of the stream, and all
The finny shoals his own.

THE OTTER TRACKED TO HIS LAIR; MUSIC OF THE OTTER-
CHASE.

But you, brave youths! Dispute the felon's claim; try every root, And every reedy bank; encourage all The busy, spreading pack, that fearless plunge Into the flood, and cross the rapid stream. Bid rocks and caves, and each resounding shore, Proclaim your bold defiance! Loudly raise Each cheering voice, till distant hills repeat The triumphs of the vale. On the soft sand See there his seal impressed! and on that bank Behold the glittering spoils, half-eaten fish, Scales, fins, and bones, the leavings of his feast; Ah! on that yielding sag-bed, see, once more, His seal I view. O'er yon dank, rushy marsh The sly, goose-footed prowler bends his course, And seeks the distant shallows. Huntsman, bring Thy eager pack, and trail him to his couch. Hark! the loud peal begins, the clamorous joy, The gallant chiding, loads the trembling air.

Ye naiads fair, who o'er these floods preside, Raise up your dripping heads above the wave, And hear our melody. The harmonious notes Float with the stream; and every winding creek And hollow rock, that o'er the dimpling flood Nods pendent, still improves from shore to shore Our sweet, reiterated joys. What shouts ! What clamor loud, what gay, heart-cheering sound, Urge through the breathing brass their mazy way! Not choirs of Tritons glad with sprightlier strains, The dancing billows, when proud Neptune rides In triumph o'er the deep. How greedily They snuff the fishy steam that to each blade Rank-scenting clings! See how the morning dews They sweep, that from their feet besprinkling drop Dispersed, and leave a track oblique behind. Now on firm land they range; then in the flood They plunge tumultuous, or through reedy pools Rustling they work their way; no hole escapes Their curious search. With quick sensation now The fuming vapor stings; flutter their hearts, And joy redoubled bursts from every mouth In louder symphonies. Yon hollow trunk, That with its hoary head incurved salutes The passing wave, must be the tyrant's fort, And dread abode.

THE OTTER, PUT DOWN, TAKES TO THE WATER; ATTACKED THERE AND SPEARED.

How these impatient climb,

While others at the root incessant bay!

They put him down. See there he dives along!
The ascending bubbles mark his gloomy way.
Quick fix the nets, and cut off his retreat
Into the sheltering deeps. Ah! there he vents!
The pack plunge headlong, and protended spears
Menace destruction, while the troubled surge
Indignant foams, and all the scaly kind,
Affrighted, hide their heads. Wild tumult reigns,
And loud uproar.
Ah! there once more he vents!
See! that bold hound has seized him; down they
Together lost; but soon shall he repent [sink,
His rash assault. See! there escaped he flies
Half drowned, and clambers up the slippery bank,
With ooze and blood distained. Of all the brutes,
Whether by nature formed, or by long use,
This artful diver best can bear the want
Of vital air. Unequal is the fight
Beneath this whelming element. Yet there
He lives not long, but respiration needs
At proper intervals. Again he vents;
Again the crowd attack. That spear has pierced
His neck, the crimson waves confess the wound.
Fixed is the bearded lance, unwelcome guest,
Where'er he flies; with him it sinks beneath,
With him it mounts; sure guide to every foe.
Inly he groans, nor can his tender wound
Bear the cold stream.

Lo! to yon sedgy bank
He creeps disconsolate his numerous foes
Surround him, hounds and men. Pierced through

[Or] this, at least, Grant me propitious - an inglorious life, Calm and serene, nor lost in false pursuits Of wealth or honors; but enough to raise My drooping friends, preventing modest want That dares not ask; and if, to crown my joys, Ye grant me health, that, ruddy in my cheeks, Blooms in my life's decline; fields, woods, and Each towering hill, each humble vale below, [streams, Shall hear my cheering voice: my hounds shall wake The lazy morn, and glad the horizon round.

WHITTIER'S "HUSKERS."

Ir was late in mild October,

And the long autumnal rain
Had left the summer harvest-fields
All green with grass again;
The first sharp frosts had fallen,

Leaving all the woodlands gay
With the hues of Summer's rainbow,

Or the meadow-flowers of May.
Through a thin, dry mist, that morning,
The sun rose broad and red;
At first a rayless disk of fire,
It brightened as it sped.
Yet even its noontide glory

Fell chastened and subdued
On the corn-fields, and the orchards,
And softly-pictured wood.
And all that quiet afternoon,
Slow sloping to the night,
It wove with golden shuttle

The haze with yellow light;
Slanting through the painted beeches,
It glorified the hill,

And beneath it pond and meadow
Lay brighter, greener, still.

And shouting boys in woodland haunts
Caught glimpses of that sky,
Flecked by the many-tinted leaves,
And laughed they knew not why ;
And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers,
Beside the meadow-brooks,
Mingled the glow of Autumn with

The sunshine of sweet looks.

From spire and barn looked westerly
The patient weathercocks,
But even the birches on the hills
Stood motionless as rocks;

No sound was in the woodlands,

Save the squirrel's dropping shell,
And the yellow leaves among the boughs,
Low rustling as they fell.

The summer grains were harvested;
The stubble-fields lay dry,

Where June-winds rolled in light and shade
The pale green waves of rye ;
But, still, on gentle hill-slopes,
In valleys fringed with wood,
Ungathered, bleaching in the sun,
The heavy corn-crop stood.

Bent low by Autumn's wind and rain,
Through husks that dry and sere
Unfolded from their ripened charge,
Shone out the golden ear;
Beneath, the turnip lay concealed
In many a verdant fold,
And glistened in the slanting light
The pumpkin's sphere of gold.

There wrought the busy harvesters,
And many a creaking wain
Bore slowly to the long barn-floor
Its load of husks and grain;
Till, rayless as he rose that morn,
Sank down at last that sun,
Ending the day of dreamy light
And warmth as it begun.

And, lo! as through the western pines,
On meadow, stream, and pond,
Flamed the red radiance of the sky,

Set all afire beyond,

Slow o'er the eastern sea-bluffs

A milder glory shone,
And the sunset and the moon-rise
Were mingled into one.

And thus into the quiet night

The sunset lapsed away,
And deeper in the brightening moon
The tranquil shadows lay;
From many a brown old farm-house,
And hamlet without name,
Their milking and their home-tasks done,
The merry huskers came.

Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest,
From pitchforks in the mow,
Shone dimly down the lanterns

On the pleasant scene below;
The growing pile of husks behind,
The golden ears before,

And laughing eyes and busy hands,

And brown cheeks glimmering o'er.

Half hidden in a quiet nook,
Serene of look and heart,
Talking their old times over,

The old men sat apart;
While, up and down the unhusked pile,
Or nestling in its shade,

At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout,
The happy children played.

Urged by the good host's daughter,

A maiden young and fair,
Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes,

And pride of soft brown hair,
The master of the village-school,

Sleek of hair and smooth of tongue,
To the quaint tune of some old psalm
A husking-ballad sung.

Heap high the farmer's wintry board!
Heap high the Golden Corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn.

Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,

The orange from its glossy green,

The cluster from the vine:

We better love the hardy gift

Our rugged vales bestow,

To cheer us when the storm shall drift

Our harvest-fields with snow.

When spring-time came with flower and bud,

And grasses green and young,

And merry bob'links, in the wood,
Like mad musicians sung:

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,
Beneath the sun of May,

And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber-crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June
Its leaves grew thin and fair,

And waved in hot mid-summer's noon
Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves,
Its harvest-time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home.
There, richer than the fabled gift

Of golden showers of old,

Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk

Around their costly board, -
Give us the bowl of samp and milk
By homespun beauty poured.
Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,

Who will not thank the kindly earth,
And bless our corn-fed girls! * *
Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,
Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,
The wheat-field to the fly:
But, let the good old crop adorn
The hills our fathers trod;
Still let us for His Golden Corn
Send up our thanks to God!

MISS ELLIOT'S "FLOWERS OF THE FOREST."

A BALLAD OF FLODDEN FIELD. I'VE heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaningThe Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,

The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae ; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,

The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray; At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleechingThe Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogles to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie -
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the
Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the

foremost,

The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.

We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae ;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
1 For this and other Scotch words, see pp. 186, 336.

QUARLES'S PSALM 42: 1.

LONGING AFTER GOD.

How shall my tongue express that hallowed fire, Which heaven hath kindled in my ravished heart!

What muse shall I invoke, that will inspire

My lowly quill to act a lofty part! What art shall I devise to express desire, Too intricate to be expressed by art! Let all the Nine be silent; I refuse Their aid in this high task, for they abuse The flames of love too much: assist David's muse.

me,

Not as the thirsty soil desires soft showers
To quicken and refresh her embryon grain ;
Nor as the drooping crests of fading flowers
Request the bounty of a morning rain,
Do I desire my God: these in few hours

Rewish what late their wishes did obtain ;
But as the swift-foot hart doth wounded fly
To the much-desired streams, even so do I
Pant after Thee, my God, whom I must find, or die!
Before a pack of deep-mouthed lusts I flee;

O, they have singled out my panting heart, And wanton Cupid, sitting in the tree,

Hath pierced my bosom with a flaming dart ; My soul being spent, for refuge seeks to Thee, But cannot find where Thou, my refuge, art: Like as the swift-foot hart doth wounded fly To the desired streams, e'en so do I

Pant after Thee, my God, whom I must find, or die!

*

YOUNG'S IMMORTALITY."

NATURE, thy daughter, ever-changing birth
Of thee, the great Immutable, to man
Speaks wisdom; is his oracle supreme;
And he who most consults her is most wise.
Look nature through, 't is revolution all,

All change, no death. Day follows night, and night
The dying day; stars rise, and set, and rise;
Earth takes the example. See the Summer gay,
With her green chaplet, and ambrosial flowers,
Droops into pallid Autumn; Winter gray,
Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm,
Blows Autumn and his golden fruits away,
Then melts into the Spring; soft Spring, with
breath

Favonian, from warm chambers of the south,
Recalls the first. All to reflourish fades,
As in a wheel all sinks to reäscend;
Emblems of man, who passes, not expires.