Whistles the arrow from the bow, Answers the harquebuss below; While all the rocking hills reply, To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters' cry. And bugles ringing lightsomely.”— Of such proud huntings, many tales Up pathless Ettricke, and on Yarrow, But not more blythe that sylvan court, Than we have been at humbler sport; Our mirth, dear Marriot, was the same. Remember'st thou my grey-hounds true? O'er holt, or hill, there never flew, More fleet of foot, or sure of fang. Nor dull, between each merry chase, Passed by the intermitted space; For we had fair resource in store, In Classic, and in Gothic lore: We marked each memorable scene, Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, All silent now-for now are still The yeoman hears the well-known gun, At thought of his paternal farm, Round to his mates a brimmer fills, And drinks, "The Chieftain of the Hills!" No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers, Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers, Fair as the elves whom Janet saw, By moonlight, dance on Carterhaugh; No youthful baron's left to grace The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chace, And ape, in manly step and tone, The majesty of Oberon : And she is gone, whose lovely face With form more light, or face more fair. At noontide she expects her not, Nor busies her to trim the cot; From Yair, which hill so closely bind, Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, Till all his eddying currents boil,— Her long-descended lord is gone, And left us by the stream alone. Companions of my mountain joys, Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, When thought is speech, and speech is truth. Close to my side, with what delight, They pressed to hear of Wallace wight, When, pointing to his airy mound, I called his ramparts holy ground! Return again the glow of theirs. Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure, They will not, cannot long endure ; * There is, on a high mountainous ridge above the farm of Ashestiel, a fosse called Wallace's 'Trench. E Condemned to stem the world's rude tide, You may not linger by the side; For Fate shall thrust you from the shore, Yet cherish the remembrance still, Of the lone mountain, and the rill; But, well I hope, without a sigh, When, musing on companions gone, We doubly feel ourselves alone, Something, my friend, we yet may gain, It soothes the love of lonely rest, Deep in each gentler heart impressed. |