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 appall, · 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,
Draw 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' sainted 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 listens 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 spirits' harden'd tool! Scorner of God, scourge of the poor ! The measure of thy cup is full.

'Be chas'd forever through the wood :
Forever roam the affrighted wild;
And let thy fate instruct the proud,
God's meanest creature is His child.'

'T was hush'd: one flash of sombre glare With yellow tinged the forest's 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;
A louder, louder, louder still,

Brought storm and tempest on its wing.

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!'
Sir W. Scott

CII

TO DAFFODILS

AIR daffodils, we weep to see

FA

You haste away so soon;
As yet the early rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon :
Stay, stay,

Until the hastening day
Has run

But to the even-song;

And having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you;
We have as short a spring:
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or any thing:

We die,

As your hours do; and dry
Away

Like to the summer's rain,

Or as the pearls of morning dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

R. Herrick

CIII

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND

THE stately homes of England!

How beautiful they stand,

Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam;

And the swan glides by them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!
The blessed homes of England!

How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from sabbath hours!

The cottage homes of England!

By thousands on her plains

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;

And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall!