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To-day their banish'd lord returns,
Once more to bless his native plains. Each hoary sire, with gladden'd face,
Repeats some ancient tale, How he with Tyrcis, at the chace,
Hied o'er the hill and dale: Their hoary heads with rapture glow,
While each to each repeats,
Was' to oppression still a foe;
Then from the grass Melanthus rose,
The arbitrator of the plains,
The Tityrus of Mernia's swains ;
easy from his lips the numbers flow'd.
“ Now the wished-for day is come,
wrap my soul in extasies :
At yon old tree the roe-buck fell :
“ The mem'ry of these happy days
When first the sheep begin to bleat,
Thus as he spoke, each youthful breast
Glows with wild extasies;
Each thinks he flies along the mead,
And hears the beagles' cries.
“ Now my youthful heat returns,
When, to hunt the fallow-deer,
70 Three thousand march'd with bow and spear, -All in the light and healthy dress
Our brave forefathers wore, Iu Kenneth's wars, and Bruce's days, And when the Romans Aed their dreadful wrath of yore. 75
O'er every hill, o'er every dale,
All by the winding banks of Tay, Resounds the hunter's chearful peal,
Their armour glittering to the day."
Big with his joys of youth the old man stood;
Dunnotyr's ruin's towers then caught his eye; He stopp’d, and hung his head in pensive mood, And from his bosom burst the unbidden sigh.
Then turning, with a warrior look, Shaking his hoary curls, the old man spoke :
“ Virtue, O Fortune ! scorns thy power,
Virtue shall ever shine ;
Shall bless her sons divine.
The illustrious exiles hail:
And all his breast unveil.
“ See, pouring from their hills of snow,
Nations of savages in arms!
The Princes of the South prepare
To crush thee in the dust:
His sword with thine, and backs thy cause ;
“ With dread the Turks have oft beheld
“ When all the fury of the fight
With wrath redoubled rag'd;
115 When all was thunder, smoke, and fire; When from their native rocks the frighted springs retire; "T'was then, through streams of smoke and blood,
Achates mounts the city-wall : Though wounded, like a god he stood,
120 And at his feet the foes submissive fall.
“ Brave are the Goths, and fierce in fight, Yet these he gave to rout and flight;
Proud when they were of victory, He rushed on like a storm; dispersed and weak they fly. 125
Thus, from the Grampians old,
A torrent, deep and strong,
Down rushes on the fold,
“ When, through an aged wood,
The thunder roars amain,
And ruin marks the plain :
When, with their numerous dogs, the swains
Surprise the aged lion's den,
And scorns the rage of dogs and men;
Glows with a victor's pride.
“ So the old lion, brave Achates, fought,
Of eighty thousand, stopped their course,
Even he himself could ne'er do more,
Fate had no greater deed in store-
Thus as he spoke, each hoary sire
Fights o'er again his ancient wars ;
And triumphs in his future scars;
The foes for mercy cry);
Him with the shouts of victory.