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The palfrey sprung with sprightly hound,

As if to match the gamesome hound;

His horn the gallant huntsman wound.-
They were a jovial three!

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame,
To wake the wild deer never came,
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game
On Cheviot's rueful day:
Keeldar was matchlcss in his speed,
Than Tarras ne'er was stauncher steed,
A peerless archer Percy Bede;
And right dear friends were they.

The chase engross'd theirjoys and woes,
Together at the down they rose,
Together shared the noon's repose,
By fountain or by stream;
And oft, when evening skies were red,
The heather was their common bed,
Where each, as wildering fancy led,
Still hunted in his dream.

Now is the thrilling moment near

Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear,

Yon thicket holds the harbour’d deer,
The signs the hunters know:

With eyes of flame,‘ and quivering ears,

The brake sagacious Keehlar nears;

The restless palfrey paws and rears;
The archer strings his bow.

The game's afoot!—halloo! halloo!

Hunter, and horse, and hound pursue;

But woe the shaft that erring flew-
That e’er it left the string‘.

And ill betide the faithless yew‘.

The stag bounds scatheless o'er the dew,

And gallant Keeldar’s life-blood true
Has drench’d the grey-goose wing.

The noble hound!-—he dies, he dies,

Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes,

Stiff on the bloody heath he lies,
Without a moan or quiver;

Now day may break and bugle sound,

And whoop and hollow ring around,

And o’er his couch the stag may bound, But Kecldar sleeps for ever.

Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,

Mark the poor palfrey’ s mute surprise;

He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death--but still

His aspect hath expression drear

Of grief, and wonder, mix'd with fear,

Like startled children when they hear Some mystic tale of ill.

But he that bent the fatal bow

Can well the sum of evil know,

And o'er his favourite bending low, In speechless grief recline;

Can think he hears the senseless clay

In uureproachful accents say

uThe hand that took my life away, Dear master, was it thine?

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, Tax curtain drops—the mimic scene is past—

One word remains, the saddest and the last.

A word which oft iu carele_ss mood we say,
When parting friends have passed a social day;
As oft pronounced in agony of heart,

When friends must sever or when lovers part:
Or o'er the dying couch in whispers spoken,
When the last tender thread is all but broken,
When all that ear can list or tongue can tell

_ Are the faint mournful accents, fare-ye-well!
I Yet ere we part—and even now a tear

Bcdims my eye to think our parting ncar—
Fain would I speak how deeply in my breast
Will the remembrance of your kindness rest-
Fain would I tell---but words are cold and weak;
It is the heart—the heart alone can speak.

The wanderer may rejoice to view once more,
The smiling aspect of her native shore,

Yet oft in mingled dreams ofjoy and pain

She 'd think she sees this bcauteous land again;
And then, as now, will fond affection trace,
The kindness that endear'd her dwelling place.
Now, then, it must be said, though from my heart
The mournful accents scarcely will depart,

THE

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Lingering, as if they fear'd to break some spell—

It must be utter'd!-friends, kind friends, farewell!
One suit remains: you will not scorn to hear,
The last my lips shall falter on your ear;
When I am far, my patrons, oh! be kind

To the dear relative I leave behind.

He is your own, and like yourselves may claim
A Scottish origin—a Scottish name.

His opening talents,—let the truth be told,

A sister in a brother's cause is bold

Shall cater for your eve of leisure still

With equal ardour, and improving skill.

And though too oft the poor performefs lot

ls but to bloom, to fade, and be forgot, Whene’cr the mimic sceptre they resign

A gentler destiny, I feel, is mine;

For, as the brother moves before your eyes,
Some memory of the sister must arise;

And in your hearts a kind rememhrancerdwell
Of her who once again sighs forth farewell!

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Or yore, in old England, it was not thought good

To carry two visages under one hood;

What should folks say to you, who have faces such plenl y. That from under one hood you lastnightshow'd us twen Ky?Stand forth, arch cleceiver! and tell us, in truth, i Are you handsome or ugly? in age, or in youth?

Man, woman, or child? or a dog, or a mouse?

Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house? Each live thing did I ask? each dead implement too? A work-shop in your person— saw, chisel, and screw ” Above all, are you one individual? I know

You must be, at the least, Alexandre and Co.

But I think you 're a troop-—an assemblage—a mobAnd that I, as the sheriff, must take up thejob,

And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse,

Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse!

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