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 Keeldar 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 groan 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 Keeldar 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 unreproachful accents say,
"The hand that took my life away,

Dear master, was it thine?

"And if it be, the shaft be bless'd,
Which sure some erring aim address'd,
Since in your service prized, caress'd
I in your service die;

And you may have a fleeter hound,
To match the dun-deer's merry bound,
But by your couch will ne'er be found
So true a guard as I."

And to his last stout Percy rued The fatal chance, for when he stood 'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud,

And fell amid the fray, E'en with his dying voice he cried, "Had Keeidar but been at my side,

Your treacherous ambush had been spiedI had not died to-day!"

Remembrance of the erring bow

Long since had join'd the tides which flow, Conveying human bliss and woe

Down dark oblivion's river;

But Art can Time's stern doom arrest,
And snatch his spoil from Lethe's breast,
And, in her Cooper's colours drest,
The scene shall live for ever.

From

Anne of Geierstein.

1829.

(1.)—THE SECRET TRIBUNAL.

"PHILIPSON could perceive that the lights proceeded from many torches, borne by men muffled in black cloaks, like mourners at a funeral, or the Black Friars of Saint Francis's Order, wearing their cowls drawn over their heads, so as to conceal their features. They appeared anxiously engaged in measuring off a portion of the apartment; and, while occupied in that employment, they sung, in the ancient German language, rhymes more rude than Philipson could well understand, but which may be imitated thus:"

MEASURERS of good and evil,

Bring the square, the line, the level,

Rear the altar, dig the trench,

Blood both stone and ditch shall drench.

Cubits six, from end to end,
Must the fatal bench extend,-

Cubits six, from side to side,
Judge and culprit must divide.
On the east the Court assembles,
On the west the Accused trembles-
Answer, brethren, all and one,
Is the ritual rightly done?

On life and soul, on blood and bone, One for all, and all for one,

We warrant this is rightly done.

How wears the night ?-Doth morning shine
In early radiance on the Rhine?
What music floats upon his tide?
Do birds the tardy morning chide?
Brethren, look out from hill and height,
And answer true, how wears the night?

The night is old; on Rhine's broad breast Glance drowsy stars which long to rest. No beams are twinkling in the east.

(12.)—CHAP. XXXV.

Here's a weapon now,

Shall shake a conquering general in his tent,
A monarch on his throne, or reach a prelate,
However holy be his offices,
E'en while he serves the altar.

Old Play.

Art thou a parent? Reverence this bier,
The parents' fondest hopes lie buried here.
Art thou a youth, prepared on life to start,
With opening talents and a generous heart,
Fair hopes and flattering prospects all thine own?
Lo! here their end-a monumental stone.
But let submission tame each sorrowing thought,
Heaven crown'd its champion ere the fight was fought.

The Foray.'

SET TO MUSIC BY JOHN WHITEFIELD, MUS. DOC. CAM.

1830.

THE last of our steers on the board has been spread,
And the last flask of wine in our goblet is red;
Up! up, my brave kinsmen ! belt swords and begone,
There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to be won.

The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with ours,
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers,
And strive to distinguish through tempest and gloom,
The prance of the steed, and the toss of the plume.

The rain is descending; the wind rises loud;
And the moon her red beacon has veil'd with a cloud;
"Tis the better, my mates! for the warder's dull eye
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.

Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Grey! There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh; Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane Shall marshal your march through the darkness and rain.

The drawbridge has dropp'd, the bugle has blown; One pledge is to quaff yet-then mount and begone!To their honour and peace, that shall rest with the slain;

To their health and their glee, that see Teviot again!

Lines on Fortune.

1831.

"By the advice of Dr. Ebenezer Clarkson, Sir Walter consulted a skilful mechanist, by name Fortune, about a contrivance for the support of the lame limb, which had of late given him much pain, as well as inconvenience. Mr. Fortune produced a clever piece of handiwork, and Sir Walter felt at first great relief from the use of it: insomuch that his spirits rose to quite the old pitch, and his letter to me upon the occasion overflows with merry applications of sundry maxims and verses about Fortune. "Fortes Fortuna adjuvat "he says-❝ never more sing 1

FORTUNE, my Foe, why dost thou frown on me?
And will my Fortune never better be?
Wilt thou, I say, for ever breed my pain?
And wilt thou ne'er return my joys again?

No-let my ditty be henceforth

Fortune, my Friend, how well thou favourest me!
A kinder Fortune man did never see!
Thou propp'st my thigh, thou ridd'st my knee of
pain,

I'll walk, I'll mount-I'll be a man again.—
Life, vol. x., p. 38.

From

Count Robert of Paris.

1831.

MOTTOES.