THE POACHER. A FRAGMENT. awe, WELCOME, grave stranger, to our green retreats, La Douce Humanité approved the sport, Seek we yon glades, where the proud oak o'ertops Wide-waving seas of birch and hazel copse, Leaving between deserted isles of land, Where stunted heath is patch'd with ruddy sand; And lonely on the waste the yew is seen, Or straggling hollies spread a brighter green. As wigwam wild, that shrouds the native frore On the bleak coast of frost-barr'd Labrador.1 Approach, and through the unlatticed window peep, Nay, shrink not back, the inmate is asleep; Sunk mid yon sordid blankets, till the sun Stoop to the west, the plunderer's toils are done. Loaded and primed, and prompt from desperate hand, Rifle and fowling-piece beside him stand, While round the hut are in disorder laid The tools and booty of his lawless trade; For force or fraud, resistance or escape, The crow, the saw, the bludgeon, and the crape. His pilfer'd powder in yon nook he hoards, And the filch'd lead the church's roof affords(Hence shall the rector's congregation fret, That while his sermon 's dry, his walls are wet.) The fish-spear barb'd, the sweeping net are there, Doe-hides, and pheasant plumes, and skins of hare, Cordage for toils, and wiring for the snare. Barter'd for game from chase or warren won, Yon cask holds moonlight,2 run when moon was none: And late-snatch'd spoils lie stow'd in hutch apart, To wait the associate higgler's evening cart. Look on his pallet foul, and mark his rest: For short and scant the breath each effort draws, « Was that wild start of terror and despair, Those bursting eye-balls, and that wilder'd air, Signs of compunction for a murder'd hare? Do the locks bristle and the eye-brows arch, For grouse or partridge massacred in March?» No, scoffer, no! Attend, and mark with awe, There is no wicket in the gate of law! He, that would e'er so lightly set ajar That awful portal must undo each bar; Tempting occasion, habit, passion, pride, Will join to storm the breach, and force the barrier wide. That ruffian, whom true men avoid and dread, Whom bruisers, poachers, smugglers, call Black Ned, Was Edward Mansell once; -the lightest heart, That ever play'd on holiday his part! The leader he in every Christmas game, The harvest feast grew blither when he came, Such is the law in the New Forest, Hampshire, tending greatly (Though placed where still the Conqueror's hests o'er- to increase the varions settlements of thieves, smugglers, and deer awe, And his son's stirrup shines the badge of law), The builder claims the unenviable boon, To tenant dwelling, framed as slight and soon stealers, who infest it. In the forest courts the presiding jedze wears as a badge of office an antique stirrup, said to have been that of William Rufus. See Mr William Rose's spirited poom, entitled The Red King." * A cant name for smug,led spirits. But he, whose humours spurn law's awful yoke, Their foes, their friends, their rendezvous the same, Wild howl'd the wind the forest glades along, And oft the owl renew'd her dismal song; Around the spot where erst he felt the wound, Red William's spectre walk'd his midnight round. When o'er the swamp he cast his blighting look, From the green marshes of the stagnant brook The bittern's sullen shout the sedges shook; The waning moon, with storm-presaging gleam, Now gave and now withheld her doubtful beam; The old oak stoop'd his arms, then flung them high, Bellowing and groaning to the troubled sky'Twas then, that, couch'd amid the brushwood sere In Malwood-walk, young Mansell watch'd the deer: The fattest buck received his deadly shotThe watchful keeper heard, and sought the spot. Stout were their hearts, and stubborn was their strife, O'erpower'd at length the outlaw drew his knife! Next morn a corpse was found upon the fell-The rest his waking agony may tell! THE DANCE OF DEATH. NIGHT and morning were at meeting Cocks had sung their earliest greeting, For no paly beam yet shone Broad and frequent through the night Where the soldier lay, Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain, Wishing dawn of morn again, Though death should come with day. 'Tis at such a tide and hour, Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, And ghastly forms through mist and shower, And then the affrighted prophet's ear Valiant Fassiefern. Through steel and shot he leads no more, And Morven long shall tell, And proud Ben Nevis hear with awe, 'Lone on the outskirts of the host, The weary sentinel held post, And heard, through darkness far aloof, The frequent clang of courser's hoof, Where held the cloak'd patrole their course, And spurr'd gainst storm the swerving horse; When down the destined plain And doom'd the future slain. Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard, When Scotland's James his march prepared For Flodden's fatal plain; Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, The yet unchristen'd Dane. The seer, who watch'd them ride the storm, SONG. Wheel the wild dance, While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Or pale disappointment, to darken my way, 'T was thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing, As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild numbers, EPITAPH ON MRS ERSKINE. PLAIN, as her native dignity of mind, Arise the tomb of her we have resign'd: Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble scroll, Emblem of lovely form, and candid soul.But, oh! what symbol may avail, to tell The kindness, wit, and sense, we loved so well! What sculpture show the broken ties of life, Here buried with the parent, friend, and wife! Or, on the tablet, stamp each title dear, By which thine uro, EUPHEMIA, claims the tear! Yet, taught, by thy meek sufferance, to assume Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb, Resign'd, though sad, this votive verse shall flow, And brief, alas! as thy brief span below, MR KEMBLE'S FAREWELL ADDRESS, ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE. As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; Why should we part, while still some powers remain, But short-lived conflict with the frosts of Is this the man who once could please our sires!»> My life's brief act in public service flown, The last, the closing scene, must be my own. Here, then, adieu! while yet some well-graced parts You look on better actors, younger men: Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget- When e'en your praise falls faltering from my tongue; FPILOGUE TO THE APPEAL, A CAT of yore (or else old Æsop lied) But now astounding each poor mimic elf, But soft! who lives at Rome the pope must flatter, SONG. On, say not, my love, with that mortified air, Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine, "T is the ardour of August matures us the wine Whose life-blood enlivens the world. Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round, And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Looks soberly now on the ground,— Enough, after absence to meet me again, Thy steps still with ecstasy move; THE PALMER. «O OPEN the door, some pity to show, Keen blows the northern wind; It is necessary to mention, that the allusions in this piece are all local, and addressed only to the Edinburgh audience. The new prisons of the city, on the Calton Hill, are not far from the Theatre. At this time the public of Edinburgh was much agitated by a lawsuit betwixt the magistrates and many of the inhabitants of the city, concerning the range of new buildings on the western side of the North Bridge; which the latter insisted should be removed as a deformity. that she might see him as he rode past. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs, that she is said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance, and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on without recognizing her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the shock, and, after a short struggle, died in the arms of her attendants. There is an instance similar to this traditional tale in Count Hamilton's Fleur d'Epine. O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see, Can lend an hour of cheering. Disease had been in Mary's bower, And slow decay from mourning, All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, Till through her wasted hand, at night, Across her cheek was flying; Her maidens thought her dying. Yet keenest powers to see and hear He came-he pass'd-an heedless gaze, THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. WANDERING WILLIE. ALL joy was bereft me the day that you left me, Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain; THERE is a tradition in Tweeddale, that when Neid-O path Castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earls of March, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble family, and a son of the Laird of Tushie-Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy fortune, law, in Ettrick Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went abroad. During his absence, the lady fell into a consumption, and at length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented that her lover should be recalled. On the day when he was expected to pass through Peebles, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, belonging to the family, When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my ee, |