ΤΟ THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT, M. A. Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. THE scenes are desart now and bare, Where flourished once a forest fair, When these waste glens with copse were lined, And peopled with the hart and hind, Yon thorn-perchance whose prickly spears Have fenced him for three hundred years, While fell around his green compeers— Yon lonely thorn, would he could tell The changes of his parent dell, Since he, so grey and stubborn now, O'er every dell what birches hung, "Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say, "The mighty stag at noontide lay: The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, (The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) With lurching step around me prowl, And stop against the moon to howl; *Mountain-ash. The mountain boar, on battle set, His tusks upon my stem would whet; Sallied a Scottish monarch's power: A thousand vassals mustered round, With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound; And I might see the youth intent, Guard every pass with cross-bow bent; And through the brake the rangers stalk, And falc'ners hold the ready hawk; And foresters, in green-wood trim, Lead in the leash the gaze-hounds grim, * Attentive, as the bratchet's bay From the dark covert drove the prey, To slip them as he broke away. The startled quarry bounds amain, As fast the gallant grey-hounds strain; Slow-hound. |