LITMIR.BIZ

      Harp of the North!1 that moldering long hast hung

      On the witch-elm2 that shades St. Fillan’s3 spring,

      And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,

      Till envious ivy did around thee cling,

      Muffling with verdant ringlet every string, —

      O minstrel Harp! still must thine accents sleep?

      Mid rustling leaves and fountain’s murmuring,

      Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep,

      Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?

      Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,4

      Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd,

      When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,

      Aroused the fearful, or subdued the proud.

      At each according pause, was heard aloud

      Thine ardent symphony sublime and high!

      Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow’d;

      For still the burden of thy minstrelsy

      Was Knighthood’s dauntless deed, and Beauty’s matchless eye.

      Oh, wake once more! how rude soe’er the hand

      That ventures o’er thy magic maze to stray;

      Oh, wake once more! though scarce my skill command

      Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay:

      Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,

      And all unworthy of thy nobler strain,

      Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway,

      The wizard note has not been touch’d in vain.

      The stag at eve had drunk his fill,

      Where danced the moon on Monan’s5 rill,

      And deep his midnight lair had made

      In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade;

      But, when the sun his beacon red

      Had kindled on Benvoirlich’s head,

      The deep-mouth’d bloodhound’s heavy bay

      Resounded up the rocky way,

      And faint, from farther distance borne,

      Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.

      As Chief, who hears his warder7 call,

      “To arms! the foemen storm the wall,”

      The antler’d monarch of the waste

      Sprung from his heathery8 couch in haste.

      But, ere his fleet career he took,

      The dewdrops from his flanks he shook;

      Like crested leader proud and high,

      Toss’d his beam’d9 frontlet to the sky;

      A moment gazed adown the dale,

      A moment snuff’d the tainted gale,10

      A moment listen’d to the cry,

      That thicken’d as the chase drew nigh;

      Then, as the headmost foes appear’d,

      With one brave bound the copse he clear’d,

      And, stretching forward free and far,

      Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.

      Yell’d on the view the opening12 pack;

      Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back;

      To many a mingled sound at once

      The awaken’d mountain gave response.

      A hundred dogs bay’d deep and strong,

      Clatter’d a hundred steeds along,

      Their peal the merry horns rung out,

      A hundred voices join’d the shout;

      With hark and whoop and wild halloo,

      No rest Benvoirlich’s echoes knew.

      Far from the tumult fled the roe,

      Close in her covert cower’d the doe,

      The falcon, from her cairn on high,

      Cast on the rout13 a wondering eye,

      Till far beyond her piercing ken14

      The hurricane had swept the glen.

      Faint, and more faint, its failing din

      Return’d from cavern, cliff, and linn,15

      And silence settled, wide and still,

      On the lone wood and mighty hill.

      Less loud the sounds of silvan war

      Disturb’d the heights of Uam-Var,

      And roused the cavern, where, ’tis told,

      A giant made his den of old;

      For ere that steep ascent was won,

      High in his pathway hung the sun,

      And many a gallant, stay’d perforce,

      Was fain to breathe his faltering horse,

      And of the trackers of the deer,

      Scarce half the lessening pack was near;

      So shrewdly16 on the mountain side

      Had the bold burst their mettle tried.

      The noble stag was pausing now

      Upon the mountain’s southern brow,

      Where broad extended, far beneath,

      The varied realms of fair Menteith.17

      With anxious eye he wander’d o’er

      Mountain and meadow, moss and moor,

      And ponder’d refuge from his toil,

      By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.

      But nearer was the copsewood gray,

      That waved and wept on Loch Achray,

      And mingled with the pine trees blue

      On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.

      Fresh vigor with the hope return’d,

      With flying foot the heath he spurn’d,

      Held westward with unwearied race,

      And left behind the panting chase.

      ’Twere long to tell what steeds gave o’er,

      As swept the hunt through Cambus-more; Скачать книгу