Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumberous spells assail you,
Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveillie.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream, in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun;
For, at dawning to assail you,
Here no bugles sound reveillie.

On the Plain of Marathon.

Scott.

WHERE ER we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground!
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould!
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told,
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon:
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold,
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone:
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon.

The sun-the soil-but not the slave the same-
Unchanged in all, except its foreign lord,

Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame:
The Battle-field-where Persia's victim-horde
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant Glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word—
Which utter'd-to the hearer's eye appear

The camp—the host—the fight—the conqueror's career!
The flying Mede-his shaftless broken bow!
The fiery Greek-his red pursuing spear!
Mountains above-Earth's-Ocean's plain below!
Death in the front-Destruction in the rear!
Such was the scene-what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear?
The rifled urn-the violated mound-

The dust-thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past,
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng;
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore;
Boast of the aged! lesson of the young!
Which sages venerate, and bards adore,
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.

The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth;
He that is lonely, hither let him roam,
And gaze complacent on congenial earth.
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth!
But he whom sadness sootheth may abide,
And scarce regret the region of his birth,
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side,

Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died.

Byron.

Lochinvar.

Oн, young Lochinvar is come out of the west!
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none;
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone!
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!

He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none-
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,

Among bridemen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all!
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword—
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word—
"Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?

to dance at our bridal? young Lord Lochinvar!"

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide!
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"

The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup!
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,-
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,——
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace!
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ""Twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!"

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

[near;

She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see!
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Scott,

A Beth Gelert.

THE spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn;

And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn:

And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer:

"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?
The flower of all his race!
So true, so brave; a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase!"

"Twas only at Llewellyn's board
The faithful Gelert fed;

He watch'd, he served, he cheer'd his lord, And sentinel'd his bed.

In sooth, he was a peerless hound,

The gift of royal John;

But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.

And now, as over rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.

That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare:
And scant and small the booty proved;
For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal-seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gain'd the castle-door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound was smear'd with gouts of gore-
His lips and fangs ran blood!

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet:

His favourite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd and lick'd his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd—
And on went Gelert too-

And still, where'er his eyes were cast,

Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view!

O'erturn'd his infant's bed, he found
The blood-stain'd covert rent;
And all around, the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.

He call'd his child-no voice replied;
He search'd-with terror wild;
Blood! Blood! he found on every side,
But no where found the child!

"Hell-hound! by thee my child's devour'd!" The frantic father cried;

And, to the hilt, his vengeful sword

He plunged in Gelert's side!

His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer waken'd nigh:
What words the parent's joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry!

Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap,
His hurried search had miss'd,

All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub-boy he kiss'd!

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread-
But, the same couch beneath,

Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead-
Tremendous still in death!

Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear:
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's wo;

Best of thy kind, adieu!

The frantic deed which laid thee low,

This heart shall ever rue!"

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture deck'd;
And marbles, storied with his praise,.
Poor Gelert's bones protect.