And merry as the lark that floats embowered

In that cloudlet, with gold so splendidly showered, The gay youthful hunter backs his steed

And urges him with headlong speed

O'er moorland, heath, wilds mountainous,
Nor fears down rugged steeps to rush,
The antlered king of the shades to chase,
Whose swiftness long maintains the race.
Hark, the fierce halloo through the forest resounds!
As full in sight the wild stag bounds;

Then darts away, like a beam of light,

While the hunters pursue like a thunder-cloud of night!

Caps high are waved to cheer the glad rout,

While the valleys re-echo with their hoarse savage shout.

But here is one of that motley crew

On a shadowy steed of ghastly hue,

'Tis Death on his pale horse who follows the throng, But joins not the laugh, the shout, or the song. Ha! who lies there with blood-streaming wound? The young hunter his courser hath dashed to the ground!

With that sad groan fled his last breath

Thy human

game is won, O Death!

On, on his gay companions speed,

They heard not his fall, they saw not his steed Beside his master groaning lie,

Lingering out life in agony!

Rose cloudless the hunter's moon that night,
As the horse and his rider together lay;
On the blood-stained stones fell her pale light,
That trembled at the crimson hue,
Now blended with the evening dew,
While paler than that pale moon-ray
The hunter youth at morn so gay,
Stretched his cold limbs, forgetful quite

Of the merry chase and the banquet night!
Silence reigned round that lonely place,
Far, far away were the sons of the chase;
Amid the hall in noisy glee

At feast and tipsy revelry.

Far, far away was the maid of truth,
Who fondly loved that hunter youth;

She gazed on the radiant star of night,

She thought on her lover, and chid his stay, She watched the clouds in their lofty flight As they crossed the moon in dim array; Then sadly told the lingering hour,

As the clock struck slow from the village tower!

Ah! little did she think that moon,

To the night-wearied pilgrim so rich a boon-
On the gore-clotted locks of her lover were flinging
Its pitying beam, as cold he lay,

With death-glazed eye by his "gallant gray,"
While round him the shadowy woods were ringing
With the dirge of the screech-owl, whose frightful

THE FATAL GATE.

STAY-stay-young Nimrod! reign thy steed,
For there is one who mocks thy speed;

I see him on thy path obtrude ;-
Pursuer! thou hast been pursued.

Expert thou art, and strong thy horse,
But what avails or skill or force?

That hoof of horn is cased in steel-
An arrow pierced Achilles' heel.

Then pause awhile, the peril shun,

Tempt not yon bar-Fate lurks beneath; Infatuate fool!-the deed is done;

That gate hath proved the gate of Death.

H. D.

THE HUNTER'S LEAP.

TOM HEADLONG was a lover of the chase

We want a stronger name than that of loverHis day was but a long-continued race,

The only plan Tom had to get time over, Who thought Life's movements nothing had to boast, Unless its rate was that of going post.

His conversation had no other course
Than that presented to his simple view;
Of what concerned his saddle, groom, or horse,
Beyond this theme he little cared or knew:
Tell him of beauty, and harmonious sounds,
He'd show his mare, and talk about his hounds.

Oh, fam'd Pythagoras! would but thy plan

Of transmigration find belief in many, "Twould check at least some cruelty in man,

To think he must become the brute, if any Had suffered from him in its worldly station, For then he'd fear a just retaliation.