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ROBERTS, M.A. Author of " Orion and other PoemSt** and '* In Divers Tones.^' Professor of English and French Literature in Kit^s College^ Windsor ^ Nova Scotia^ Canada, LONDON WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE TORONTO : W. J. GAGE AND CO. 1888 140651 .^l i " INDEX. Bryant, Willfam Cullen— PAGE An Indian Story ..... 1 The African Chief 4 The Arctic Lover ..... 6 Cheney, John Vance- How Squire Coyote brought fire to the Cahroca 7 The End of Sir Coyote .... . 13 DuvAR, John Hunter— From " De Boberval "—Act II., Scene 6 . . 16 Eaton, Arthur Wentworth— The Death of De Soto .... . 22 Fawcett, Edoar— Tiger to Tigress . 25 A Vengeance ...... . 26 OiLDER, Richard Watson— The Voice of the Pine .... . 28 -' ^ ' w» ^ ' -i ww»! a ai!|^»iiw*g«.' vi INDEX. GuiNEY, Louise Imogen— page The WUd Ride .... . 80 Hamilton, Ian— The BaUad of Hadji (Indian Boar Hunt) . 81 HoRNB, Richard Hengist— Hajarlis The Fair of Alraacliara From "Arctic Heroes" , . . < . 41 . 44 . 60 De Kay, Charles— The Maid of the Beni Yezid . 64 Lamer, Sidney— The Revenge of Hamish . • . . W Macuar, Agnes Maud— The Passhig of Clote Scarp . 03 Macintyre, Duncan Ban— % Bendourain, the Otter Mount 1 • 66 Mackay, Robert— The Song of Winter . 74 Mair, Charles— From " Tecumseh "—Act n., Scene 1. Act V., Scene 8 78 Miller, Joaquin— With Wallier in Nicaragua Kit Carson's Ride . . . , . Dead in the Sierras .... After the Boar Hunt From " Arlzonian " . . . . . From " The Last Taschastas " . 84 . 106 . Ill . 112 . 113 . 120 ,',isiiai-i."5i", .,.-j.:„;-.... INDEX, VII O'Rkillv, John Boyle— VK(,V. Golu ...... . I'JI The Dukite Snake .... . 120 The Dog Guard .... . i;n The Amber Whale .... . 1:J7 A Savage ..... . 149 PococK, H. Reginald A.— The Ranchman's Bridal . • Prinole. Thomas— Afar in the Desert . . . . Roberts, Chakles George Douglas— " The Quelling of the Moose " How the Mohawks sot out for Meiluctto Sangstbr, Charles— The Snows . . . . , Sharp, William— The Stock-Driver's Ride . '.rhe Isle of Love . . . , The Corroboree . . . , Stei'Man, Edmund Clarence— Ohristopbe . . . • « Stoddard, Richard Henrt— The Sledge at the Gate . . , Tes, we are merry Cossacks He rode from the Khora Tukhan . Forgive me, mother dear . . 160 . 151 . 164 . 160 . 169 . 161 . 163 . 188 . 189 . 191 . 192 . 192 . 193 • • • Vlll INDEX, TEONi^R, ESAIAS— From "FrMthjors Saga"— Fridihjof at Sea . Balder's Pyre The Election to the Kingdom Thompson, Maurice— The Death of the White Heron The Fawn . . . PAOi: . 104 . 2(11 . 205 . 208 . 212 Warner, Horace E.— The Flight of the Red Horse Whitman, Walt— Song of the Redwood Tree From far Dalcotah's Shore . 211 . 221 . 226 Notes . 231 INTRODUCTION. N maki i<4 my selections for this volume of v.iKi-lIfc poems, I have taken no thoucfht for complete- ness. The scope of surh a collection might naturally be regarded as embracing the field of earlier folk-song — the verse produced by peoples just emerging from barbarism ; but for immediate ness of interest I have concerned myself in the main with that characteristically modern verse which is kindled where the outposts of an elaborate and highly self-conscious civilisation come in contact with crude humanity and primi- tive nature. The element of self-consciousness, I think, is an essential one to this species of verse, which delights us largely as affording a measure of escape from the artificial to the natural. Such escape is not to be achieved unless the gulf between be bridged for us. This the poet effects by INTRODUCTION. depicting wild existence and untrammelled action in the light of a continual consciousness of the difference between such existence and our own. To have any articulate message of enticement for our imaginations, the life of the wilds must be brought into relation with what we have exper- ienced or conceived. We must be able to imagine ourselves as thrown into like situations, as con- fronted with like emergencies. The action or the situation comes home to us through the personality of such a one as ourselves, who is thoroughly in touch with the life he is describing, yet consciously belongs to a wider sphere. By such medium the most remote phases of human existence, the most unfamiliar aspects of the natural world, are drawn easily within range of our sympathies. Such wild-life verse as this is essentially a pro- duct of later days. The first waves of civilisation which, within the last century or two, washed into the wilderness of the east and wiSt, consisted mainly of the pioneer element. These pioneers were men wholly engrossed in action. After them came some who fled from the weariness of the artificial and the conventional, and who were able to give imaginative expression to their delight in INTRODUCTION, XI the change. By a natural reaction, it is to the most highly-developed society that such writings as they produced make strongest appeal, restoring confidence in the reality of the universal and original impulses, and re-emphasising the dis- tinction between the essentials and the accessories of life. In the struggling civilisations which give birth to them, however, these writings are apt to be regarded with distaste. It is to the voice from the drawing-room, rather, that the wilderness hearkens, so the better to keep itself reminded of the ideal toward which it works. From American writers, taking all in all, comes our most abundant and distinctive wild-life verse — and it is from English readers that this verse wins its most cordial appreciation. The prince of all wild-life poets is the " Poet of the Sierras," Joaquin Miller, an American of the Americans, to whom the Old World hearkens with delight, but whom the New World eyes askance. English critics place Miller in the front rank of American singers. American critics, on the other hand, though granting him, not over willingly, a measure of geniuii, will allow him no such standing as an equality with Longfellow or with Lowell The Xll INTRODUCTION. case illustrates what I have suggested in a pre- ceding paragraph. Our civilisation on this side the Atlantic has not quite outgrown the remem- brance of its early struggles. The riper portions of America and Canada have attained a degree of culture not distinguishable, at its best, from that of the Old World ; but we are not yet satisfied that the Old World appreciates this fact. We are so few generations from the pioneer that his hard experiences have not yet, to our eyes, put on the enchanting purples of remoteness. We have a tendency to accentuate our regard for culture, for smoothness, for conventionality ; and we some- times betray a nervous apprehension lest writings descriptive of the life on our frontiers should be mistaken as descriptive of our own life. Miller's work, almost in its very defects, answered to an Old World need. There, consequently, it found fitting recognition. To New World life it had less to give, outside of its purely poetic qualities ; and its faults were just such as the New World civilisa- tion had been at such pains to outgrow. More- over, and worst of all, this work was taken by the Old World as a typical New World pro- duct, in which capacity, of course, it had to be \*\> INTRODUCTION, xiu emphatically repudiated In very truth, the bizarre experiences which inspire such verse as Miller's, such prose as that of Bret Harte, are as foreign to the typical American as to the typical English- man, — and much less to the former's liking. The genius of Miller is peculiarly fitted to bring this kind of verse to perfection. By nature, by temperament, he belongs to a self-conscious and long-established society. He is continually analysing himself in others. He is always holding himself sufficiently apart from his surroundings to be able to analyse their savour to the full. At the same time, his intense human sympathy keeps him in touch with the subject of his observation ; and a childhood spent in his wild Oregon home, the associations of his youth and early manhood among the turbulent pioneers and miners of the Pacific coast, have so indelibly impressed his genius, that the master-passions alone, and those social problems only that are of universal import, concern him v/hen his singing robes are on. There is thus a primitive sincerity in his expres- sion, and in his situations a perennial interest His passion is manly, fervent, wholesome ; and the frankness of it particularly refreshing in these x!v INTRODUCTION, ii indiflferent days. He is a lover of sonorous rhythms, and betrays here and there in his lines the enthralling cadences of Swinburne. But in spite of such surface resemblances, he is funda- mentally as original as fresh inspiration, novel material, and a strongly individualised genius might be expected to make him. My excuse for singling out the work of Joaquin Miller for special comment is the fact that such poems as "With Walker in Nicaragua," " Kit Carson's Ride," " Arizonian," and many others for which I would fain have found space, appear to me the most characteristic work of their kind. They are just such poems as our dilettante-ridden society is in need of. The active romantic element present in all this wild-life verse, — pre-eminently in the verse of Joaquin Miller, — makes it of special significance to us in these days, when poetry has become too much a matter of technique^ too little a matter of inspiration. The saving grace we modems are apt to lack is that of a frank enthusiasm. We are for ever lauding the virtue of restraint, and expounding the profound significance of repose. There has been so much talk of the repose of INTRODUCTION. XV conscious strength, that one is apt to forget about the repose of conscious weakness. "Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well." He is but a little poet who dares not show him- self moved. The great ones, both of earlier and later days, have been ready enough to throw off their repose when they would exeri their utmost strength. A familiarity with the work of our wild- life singers may bring question upon the modem poetic dogma of justification by restraint. It may also assist, not inappreciably, in that renascence of a true romantic spirit, toward which some of our best spirits look for the rejuvenation of our song. Out of what is called Romanticism has arisen the most stimulative poetry, the poetry for poets, the poetry of Shakespeare and the Elizabethans, of Chatterton, of Coleridge, of Keats. And the quality of stimulation is that which the true poet should desire above all else, even if at the expense of the conservation of his verse. The torch that conveys the light to a score of waiting beacons, though its flame smoulder thereafter, is not less worthy than the brightest and most enduring of those signal-fires of whose incandescence it was S, ,**,:*'l«^ *■!***-' »|iMWPBMMI ESSBSMBWa XVI INTRODUCTION. the parent. The elements of romance lie thick in the life about us, but the tendency is to ignore them lest we should seem to wear our heart on our sleeve. An example of greater frankness and sincerity may not be lost upon us. Let me not be misunderstood, however, as joining in the present too common cry of critics, that our poetry is in process of decadence. This age has still singing for it rather more than its share of master-poets, to whom it were the height of folly to imagine that my talk of " the minds of the day," and "dilettantism," in any degree applied. My words are of the young men from among whom must come the masters of the future generation. Among the young poets, with all their admirable dexterity, there is a too general lack of romance, of broad human impulse, of candid delight in life. To them such verse as that of Miller and his fellows contains a message of power. The reader will doubtless miss from this collec- tion many poems which he would have considered appropiiate to it. For some of these omissions it is quite possible either my judgment or my know- ledge may be at fault. In certain cases, again, I have had no choice. There are poems by Bayard ■ ick in ignore ^1 on our ■ s and fl^B er, as 1 critics, 1 This 1 lan its 1 height 1 inds of 1 pplied. ; • whom iration. i lirable nance, in life. nd his coUec- I ■ idered ; ions it know- : ^ain, I ayard J INTRODUCTION. xvn Taylor, Bret Harte, and others, which I greatly wished to include ; but the veto of the single firm of publishers concerned intervened. Many fine poems, moreover, I have thought well to omit as being already household words. There is a large section of wild-life verse which lies open to the charge of having been written rather from reading than from experience. This is but scantily represented. The literature of America, about a generation back, was blossoming most exuberantly with poems on the American Indian. As a rule this work was not effective ; and the little of it that was genuinely fine and strong has become so hackneyed as to he without my purpose. The field of Australian song, whence I thought to have gathered for my collection many of its choicest and most distinctive ornaments, has been pre- empted by Mr. Sladen in his Australian Ballads and Rhymes^ a late predecessor of the present volume in the series to which both belong. I am indebted to Mr. Sladen, however, for having left to me the picturesque and virile work of Mr. John Boyle O'Reilly. To the living authors represented in this collection I owe grateful acknowledgment for the courteous and liberal b XVlll INTRODUCTION, assistance which they have rendered me. To certain other poets, not herein represented, I take the opportunity of expressing my thanks for a goodwill which is none the less appreciated because the firm of publishers already alluded to refused to second it I have also gratefully to record my obligations to the following publishers, who were most generous in granting me permission to select from their copyright works : — Messrs. Charles Scribner & Sons, D. Appleton & Co., Ticknor & Co., S. C. Griggs & Co. CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS. Kin^i College.^ Windsor^ Aova Scotia* ri To d, I inks ated d to y to jers, sion 1 iton POEMS OF WILD LIFE. poems of Miib Xffe* -•••- AN INDIAN STORY. '* I KNOW where the timid fawn abides In the depths of the shaded dell, Wliere the leaves are broad and the thicket hides. With its many stems and its tangled sides. From the eye of the hunter well. *' I know where the young May violet grows, In its lone and lowly nook, On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws Its broad dark bough, in solemn repose, Far over the silent brook. V ** And that timid fawn starts not with fear When I steal to her secret bower ; And that young May violet to me is dear, And I visit the silent streamlet near, To look on the lovely flower." Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks To the hunting-ground on the hills ; 'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, With her bright black eyes and long black locks. And voice like the music of rills. 491 rw«!»*«»i' ■■r imi iy y» ,.?»t-» »t,' '^. " MH ! W *«y»'^^V'i?iy . T • AN INDIAN STORY, lie goes to the chnsc— hut evil eyes Arc at watch in the thicker shades ; For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, 'i he flower of the forest maids. The l)on}i;hs in the mornini; wind arc stirred, And tlic woods their sonj» renew, With the early carol of many a hird. And the quickened tunc f)f the streamlet heard Where the hazels trickle with dew. And Maquon has promised his dark-liaired maid, Ere eve shall redden the sky, A good red deer from the forest shade. That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, At her cabin-door shall lie. The hollow woods, in the setting sun, King shrill with the firebird's lay ; And Maquon's sylvan labours are done, And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won He bears on his homeward way. He stops near his bower — his eye perceives Strange traces along the ground — At once to the earth his burden he heaves ; He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves ; And gains its door with a bound. But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, And all from the young shrubs there By struggling hands have the leaves been rent. And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent, One tress of the well-known hair. AN INDIAN STORY, 3 But where is she who, at this calm hour, Ever watched his coming to see ? She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower ; He calls — but he only hears on the flower The hum of the laden brc. It is not a time for idle grief, Nor a time for tears to flow ; The horror that freezes his limbs is brief — lie grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf 0( darts made sharp for the foe. And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet Where he bore the maiden away ; And he darts on the fatal path more fleet Than the blast that hurries the vapour and sleet O'er the wild November day. 'Twas early summer when Ma(|uon's bride Was stolen away from his door ; But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, And the grape is black on the cabin-side — • And she smiles at his hearth once more. But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold, Where the yellow leaf falls not, Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold. There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould, In the deepest gloom of the spot. And the Indian girls, that pass that way, Point out the ravisher's grave ; "And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, ' ' Returned the maid that was borne away From Maquon the fond and the brave." IK C. Bryant m^mw. THE AFRICAN CHIEF. THE AFRICAN CHIEF. Chained in the market-place he stood, A man of giant frame, Amid the gathering multitude That shrank to hear his name — All stern of look and strong of limb. His dark eye on the ground :- And silently they gazed on him, As on a lion bound. Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, He was a captive now, Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, Was written on his brow. The scars his dark broad bosom wore Showed warrior true and brave ; A prince among his tribe before. He could not be a slave. Then to his conqueror he spake : ** My brother is a king ; Undo this necklace from my neck. And take this bracelet ring, And send me where my brother reigns. And I will fill thy hands With store of ivory from the plains, And gold dust from the sands. " ** Not for thy ivory nor thy gold Will I unbind thy chain ; That bloody hand shall never hold The battle-spear again. THE AFRICAN CHIEF, A price that nation never gave Shall yet be paid for thee ; For thou shalt be the Christian's slave In lands beyond the sea." Then wept the warrior chief and bade To shred his locks away ; And one by one, each heavy braid Before the victor lay. Thick were the platted locks, and long, And closely hidden there Shone many a wedge of gold among The dark and crisped hair. " Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold Long kept for sorest need ; Take it — thou askest sums untold — And say that I am freed. Take it — my wife, the long, long day. Weeps by the cocoa-tree. And my young children leave their play And ask in vain for me." " I take thy gold, but I have made Thy fetters fast and strong. And ween that by the cocoa-shade Thy wife will wait thee long." Strong was the agony that shook The captive's frame to hear. And the ptoud meaning of his look V^as changed to mortal fear. His heart was broken — crazed his brain At once his eye grew wild ; He struggled fiercely with his chain. Whispered, and wept, and smiled ; ■■•■9im~'y^>. ir-m • •;>mi»^ *.'»'w««»,^»3jr ,. THE ARCTIC LO VER. Yet wore not long those fatal bands, And once, at shut of day, They drew him foitli upon the sands, The foul hyena's prey. W. C. Bryant. THE ARCTIC LOVER. Gone is the long, long winter night ; Look, my beloved one ! How glorious, through his depths of light, Rolls the majestic sun ! The willows, waked from winter's death, Give out a fragrance like thy breath — The summer is begun ! Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day : Hark to that mighty crash ! The loosened ice -ridge breaks away — The smitten waters flash ; Seaward the glittering mountain rides, While down its green translucent sides, The foamy torrents dash See, love, my boat is moored for thee By ocean's weedy floor — The petrel does not skim the sea More swiftly than my oar. We'll go where, on the rocky isles, Her eggs the screaming sea-lowl piles Beside the pebbly shore. SQUIRE COYOTE. Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, The wind-flowers frail and fair, While I, upon his isle of snow. Seek and defy the bear. Fierce though he be and huge of frame, This arm his savage strength shall tame, And drag him from his lair. When crimson sky and tlamy cloud Bespeak the summer o'er, And the dead valleys wear a shroud Of snows that melt no more, I'll build of ice thy winter home, With glistening walls and glassy dome. And spread with skins the floor. The white fox by thy couch shall play ; And, from the frozen skies, The meteors of a mimic day Shall flash upon thine eyes. And I — for such thy vow — meanwhile Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile, Till that long midnight flies. W. C. Bryant. HOW SQUIRE COYOTE BROUGHT FIRE TO THE CAHROCS.* In the beginning Charcya made tire (That is, the Cahrocs say so), Housed it safe with two beldams dire. And meant to have it stay so. But the Cahrocs declared that Are should be free, * The Coyote : the Prairie wolf. 8 SQUIRE COYOTE, Not jealously kept under lock and key. Crafty Squire Coyote, — Counsellor of note, he, — Just such a case he was meant for : Forthwith his honour was sent for. Squire Coyote came. On hearing the case, The cunningest smile passed over his face ; Then, slyly winking, In the midst of his thinking He stopt, stopt short. An emphatic snort, And said he : " Tight spot, 'Twere vain to conceal it : Very sorry you're in it. But, though tight as a Gordian knot, What are you 'bout That you don't get out ? It's only the work of a minute : The way to get fire is to — steal it. " Squire Coyote was right- every Cahroc knew it, But (bless them !) how were they going to do it ? "Ah!" said Coyote, Stroking his goatee And taking his hat, *' Let me 'tend to that." Then, airily bowing to left and right. He scampered away, and was out of sight. Fire for the Cahroc nation 1 Coyote made preparation. From the land of the Cahrocs afar to the East — The rough, he knew every inch of the road — ■ Was stationed, now here, now there, a beast. All the way to the hut where the hs^s abode. if SQUIRE COYOTE, Tbe weaklings farthest off he put, The strong ones nearest the witches* hut ; And lastly, hard by the guarded den, Placed one of the sinewy Cahroc men. This done, up he trotted, and tapped. The gentlest possible, rapped At the old crones' smoky door. * ' Beg pardon for being so bold ; Fact is, I am numb with cold : Pray give me a bed on your floor." The trick succeeded ; they let him in. And, snug at the feet of the beldams dire, He stretched his length to the open fire. Not long he lay, when, oh, the din. The drubbing sudden heard outside ! Such a bumping and banging, Such a whacking and whanging ! ** Itch to your skins ! " the witches cried. And rushed from the hut to see What the horrible noise could be. Now, it was only the Cahroc man Playing his part of Coyote's plan ; But the simple old crones, you can well understand, Didn't see through it. And, before they knew it. Coyote was off with a half-burnt brand. Twitching and whisking it, Switching and frisking it. The best he knew, Away he flew, -•w- it ■-"-«T*'j«^»^'^'^' mm r-:i lo SQUIRE COYOTE, The Cahrocs' lauijhtcr And the crones clo-ic after. Over hill and dale, Like a comet's tail, Sweeps the borrowed biand Toward Caliroc-land. But the crones are fleet and strong, And it can't be long Before Coyote is made to feel How wicked a thing it is to steal. His spindling pegs — Mere spider legs — Nature never designed 'em To match the big shanks behind 'iiic He runs as never wolf ran ; Every muscle and nerve, All his wild-wood verve, Is put to the strain ; But, scratch it the fastest he can, The gray hags gain, And the race must soon be over. Race over ? See there — who's that ? Zounds ! What a monstrous cat ! It's the cougar sprung from his cover. Ha, ha ! All but from the head crone j hand His jaws have rescued the precious brand, And he's off like shot ! ** On time to a dot," Coughs Coyote, clearing the soot From his throat and the specks from his eyes ; ** Bravo, my gallant brute ! — And still the good fire flies ! " Fly it had to. You wouldn't believe old bones Could scuttle as now did the legs of the crones. SQUIRE COYOTE, XI The witches were marvellous fleet and strong, But, you see, the line of the beasts was too long : From the cougar the brand was passed to the bear, And so on down to the fox, to the hare, Thence on and on, till, flat in their tracks. The crones collapsed like empty sacks. Thus the brand was brought from the beldams' den Safe to the homes of the Cahroc men. And only two mishaps 'Mongst all the scampering chaps That, each from the proper place, Took his turn in the fire-brand chase. The squirrel, as sudden he whirled. Turning a corner of stumps and boulders Ikirned his beautiful tail, so it curled Clean over his back. And scorched a brown track. Still seen (tail also) over his shoulders. The frog, poor thing ! His was a harder fate. Small as smallest coal in the grate Was the brand when he got it. Jump and spring He did, till he thought it Was safe ; when, pounce, like a stone, Fell the claws of the foremost crone. At last I le was fast ; No sort of use To try to get loose His eyeballs bulged, his little heart thumped — 'Most broke his ribs, so hard it bumped. -7«5«K-'"*f««i«»!r . -^'^""■•iiK 12 SQUIRE COYOTE, So frightened he was, that, down to this day, He looks very much in the same scared way. The frog was caught, Was squeezed Till he wheezed ; But not too tight For just a mile Of ranine thought . '* Co-roak, chug, choke, Granny Hag, good joke. Well you've followed it ; So move up your hand And take your old brand "— Then he swallowed it I And before the crone could wholly recover From the sight of such a wonder. Slipping her fingers from under. He plunged into a pool all over. He had saved the brand, But the witch's hand Still clutched his special pride and care — His tail, piteously wriggling there. Henceforth — he must grin and bear it — The tadpole alone was to weai it. At length, when the crones had gone, He sought an old log, and got on : *• Rather short of beauty. But I did my duty ; That's enough for a frcg." Then he spat on the log. Spat the swallowed spark Well into its bark. THE END OF SIR COYOTE, 13 Fire, fire to your heart's desire ; Fire, fire for the world entire : It's free as air to everybody, White man or Cahroc, wise man or noddy. From the beldams' den, A gift to all men, Coyote brought it. In the wettest weather Rub two sticks together, Presto — you've got it I John Vance Cheney, THE END OF SIR COYOTE. A FAMOUS fellow was Sir Coyote, Brimful of pluck and chivalry ; A regular four-legged knight was he, The quadrupedal peer of Don Quixote. This doughty knight of the silver crest. What wonders he wrought in the far wild West ! Strange that great ones must totter and fall— Wolseys, Napoleons, Coyotes, and all ; But it is true That they do, And small folk can't help it.— Well, To the tale the Cahrocs tell : Sir Coyote, successfiil from birth, At length became such a puff There was not room enough For him on this little earth ; ,.^-*-->ftK*f«iiir*'- ^«,^-^-w... ^. ss^,-«««5«5:'«?». mfiki mUf-* T' 14 THE END OF SIR COYOTE, A wolf of his size Must move to the skies. Now each night came a star Not so very far From the hill-top Coyote was wont to sit on, And a very cute plan his Bi'^noss hit on : The first fjood chance, He would have a dance With the golden-robc(^ lady. "To-morrow night," said he, ** I'll hail her, right here by this tree. And, everything ready. Forever quit of the vulgar ground, I'll be at her side in a single bound." But the keenest earthly craft May fail in the heavens. The star, Holding her course afar. Only twinkled a little, and laughed At Coyote's proposal : that's all The attention she paid to his call. Now the knight of the silver crest Swelled so the buttons flew off his vest. »'HaI lady," quoth he, " Vou defy me. We'll see." And he began to bark. Thereafter every night, As soon as 'twas dark, With all his might and main. Coyote began again : Bark ! bark ! l)ark ! hark ! The little star. Shy as our timidest maidens are. Poor thing ! was so dazed, so distracted By the shameful manner in which he acted, THE END OF SIR COYOTE, »5 That, to end the matter, she promised him square To lead him next night a round dance in the air. Coyote, tricked out in his Sunday best, Was prompt in his place on the peak in the West ; Thence, when the star came up on her round, lie gave a most prodigious hound, And rearing upright in a manner grand, Courtly took hold of the lady's hand. Then for it ! tripping and prancing, Away they went dancing Light as a feather, The star and the wolf together. Far, far, far, far, Spun the wolf and the star ; Into the dim, still sky Whirled up so high That the Klaurath, winding slow, Lay, miles and miles below, Like a slack bowstring, Dwindled almost to nothing ; The valleys looked narrow as threads, And the Cahroc camps mere arrow-heads. Higher and higher the dancers flew. O, how cold, bitter cold, it grew ! StifTer and stiffer Coyote's knees. His paws so numl), he could hardly hold. Cold, cold, O, bitter cold ! Unless there come change of weather, No help for him — he must freeze. " Sir Lupus ! Sir Lupus ! we've not come far ; Cheer up, spin on," cries the rollicking star. ** Mind we foot it together. Sir Lupus ! Sir Lupus ! look to your knees ; As you love, Sir Lupus, I pray you don't freeze." MSMW i6 FROM ''DE ROBERVAW Faster and faster, on and on, Went the two, Skipping and dancing, Tripping and prancing. Up the blue, Till Coyote's last hope was gone. Cold, O, so aching cold I Frozen from tip of nose To tips of toes. At length he — lost his hold. Then ? When ? What then ? Back to the earth again How far it was no one can tell. But ten long snows, Sir Lupus fell, A thousand times farther than th' angel in Milton ; And when found, near the spot he was spilt on, Sir Coyote lay flat As a willow mat. — It's rather unsafe to dance with a star, For Coyotes or you, sir, whoever you are. John Vance Cheney, i FROM **i;e ROBERVAL." Act II., Scene VI. [ Within the Stockade Fort at Quebec. Soldiers carousing. ] One sings. Fill comrades, fill the bowl right well, Trowl 1 jund the can with mirth and glee. Zip-zip, huzza, Noel I Noel ! A health to me, a health to thee, And Normandie. i FROM ''DE ROBERVAW 17 Chorus. Pass, comrades, pass the learning can, And swig the draught out every man 1 Another round as deep as last, Down to the bottom pig, pardie ! Eyes to the front, — half pikes, — stand fast I A health to me, a health to thee. And Picardie. Chot^s. Pass, comrades, pass the reaming can. And swig the draught out every man ! Though this be nought but soldier's tap. None better wine none ne'er did see, It riped on our own crofts, mayhap. So here's a health to thee, to me, An* fair Lorraine, Again — Lorraine I Chorus. May he be shot that shirks the can, Quick, drain the draught out, every man J [Enter Ohnawa ; soliiiers croivd around her.] 1st Soldier. Whom have we here ? This is a shapely wench. 2nd So die r. Clean-limbed. Round -armed. Svelte. And lithe and lissome. 6th Soldier. Like a Proven^ale in her mumming garb On Pope Unreason's day. But where's her dog ? Tth Soldier. I saw one like that one in Italy ; A statue like her as two peas. They called her Bronze something, — I forget. They dug her up, And polished her, and set her up on end. 492 ^rd Soldier, 4/// Soldier.. ^th Soldier. 18 FROM ''DE ROBERVAL. \st Solaier, Hi, graven image, hast thou ne'er a tongue ? 2nd Soldier, How should she speak but as a magpie chatters ? Chat, chat, pretty Mag ! yd Soldier, Leave her alone, now. 4/^ Sodier, Lay hold on her, and see if she feels warm. [Ohnawa draws a km/e,"] All, Aha I well done 1 encore the scene ! well played ! [RoBERVAL approaches. She advances towards hi'm,] Meat for our master I Ohnawa I Soldiers [retiring]. Roberval, Ohnawa. Great Chief. Roh, What then, my wild fawn, hast indeed come in, A live pawn for thy people ? Then I hope 'Twill be long time ere they make matters up, So that we still may keep thee hostage here. But say, do practised warriors, shrewd and cunning, Send such bright eyes as thine to armed camp. To glancing catch full note of our weak points Or o( our strength ? We hang up spies, Ohnawa. Ohn. I am no spy. No warrior sent me here. Rob. Why did'st thou come ? Ohn. Did'st thou thyself not ask me? Rob, I did, i'faith* ; and now, thou being here, Shalt see such wonders as are to be seen. They will impress thy untutored savage mind. Notest thou arms upon that slender mast, Whose fingers, sudden moving, form new shape ? By that we speak without the aid of words, Long leagues away. Ohn. This is not new to me. Our braves, on journeys, speak in silent signs By leaves, grass, moss, feathers, twigs, ana stones. FROM ''DE ROBERVAU" 19 So that our people can overtake the trail, And tell a message after many moons. Ro . I've heard of the woodland semaphore. •Tis a thing to be learned, — and acted on. Ohn. Why dost thou raise thy head-gear to that blanket ? Roh. Blanket 1 young savage, — 'tis the flag of France, The far most glorious flag of earth and sea, That, floating over all this continent, Shall yet surmount the red brick towers of Spain. But, pshaw I why do I speak. Gunner, fire off a fauconet. What not a wink ? Art thou, then, really bronze. Insensible to wonder ? Ohn. All is new. Roh. Then why not show astonishment ? Young maids. When marvels are presented to their view, Clasp their fore-fingers, or put hand to ears. Simper, cry ** O, how nice ! " look down and And show the perturbation of weak minds. Ohn. I see new marvHs chat I ne'er have seen, But when I one- brve seen them they are old. Roh. These are ii»e stables where the chargers are. \^Horse led out ; groom gallops. 1 No wo.idei i> thine eyes even at this sight? Can'st thoi\ look on this steed, and yet ^ ,. icel No sight s( beautiful in all the world ? Ohn. I have seen herds of these brave gallanc beasts. Rob. [quickyi When ? where was this ? Ohn. When that ]: was a child A tribe came scouting from t^e pinking sun, Th'i hatchet buried, on a piigiimage To take salt water back fioia ouv t'lC :^ea. As is their custom in ih ir. sri^tiin rites. They were all mounted, evei/onc on steeds. I 20 FROM ''DE ROBERVAU' Rob. Indeed ! Ohii, Our brethren, who live six moons nearer night, And many more in number than the stars, With steeds in number many more than they. Dwell on the boundless, grassy, hunting-plains, Beyond which mountains higher than the clouds, And on the other side of them the sea. /\ob. Important this, but of it more anon. [ IJiey enter the caserne, j These are called books. These are the strangest things Thou yet hast seen. I take one of them down, And lo ! a learned dead man comes from his grave, Sits in my chair and holds discourse with me. And these are pictures. Ohn. They are good tokens. Roh. These, maps. Ohn. I, with a stick, upon the sand Can trace the like. Rob. By'r Lady of St. Roque That shalt thou do. The Pilot missed it there ; These savages must know their country well. This girl shall be my chief topographer, By her I'll learn the gold and silver coast That Cartier could not find. Come hither to this window. Music, ho I {^Band plays.'\ Art thou not pleased with these melodious sounds ? Ohn. The small sounds sparkle like a forest fire, The big horn brays like lowing of the moose, The undertone is as Niagara. Rob. Have ye no music, enfans, in the woods ? No brave high ballad that your warriors s'ng To cheer them on a march ? ^^ m \- ight, ey, ains, :1ouds, caserne, j strangest lown, lis grave, me. )kens. and lie here ; lell. FROM ''DE ROBERVAW 21 nd plays. "[ sounds ? » ose. '"'g Ohn. We have music. But our braves sing not. We have tribal bards Who see in dreams things to make music of, They tell our squaws, and the good mothers croon Them over to their little ones asleep. Rob. Sing me a forest song, one of thine own. [Ohnawa goes to a drum and beats softly with her handy humming the 7vhUe.'\ This verily is music without words. Explain, now, what its purport must mean. Ohn. The cataracts in the forests have many voices. They talk all day and converse beneath the stars, The mists hide their faces from the moon. The spirits of braves come down from the hunting- grounds ; They arrive in the night rainbows, and stalk among the trees, Hearing the voice of the waters. Poetic, by my soul. Why Ohnawa, I've found a treasure in thee. Go now, child ; Halt e'er thou goest, Heie are our wares for trading with the tribes. Take something with thee for remembrance, oright scarlet cloth, beads, buttons, rosaries, Rilbons and huswifes, scizzors, looking-glasses — To civilised and savage wonien dear. Take one, take anything, nay, lade thyself. Nothing ? Shrewd damsel, but that shall not be ; No visitor declines a souvenir. What hast thou ta'en ? A dagger double-edged. Good, 'tis a choice appropriate, guard it well. And hide it in thy corset, — I forget, Thou wear'bt none. Go now, girl. And come again. {^Exeunt, '\ J, H. Duvar. Rob. 22 " THE DEA TH OF DE SOTOJ* " THE DEATH OF DE SOTO." ■^N a shadowy plain where Cypress groves And sleeping palm-trees rise, *i-.vi ve antlered deer, swift-footed, roves, 1 ae 'irave De Soto lies. They have made him a bed, where overhead The trailing moss entwines With leaves of the campion-flower red, And gleaming ivy-vines. Over his fevered forehead creeps, From the cedar branches high, The wind that sleeps in the liquid deeps Of the changeless southern sky. And the Mississippi's turbid tide. Broad and free, flows past, Like the current wide, on which men glide, To another ocean vast. He dreams of the days in sunny Spain, When heart and hope were strong. And he hears again, on the trackless main, The sound oi the sailor's song. Now with the fierce Pizarro's band To wield the sword anew, He takes command on the golden sand Of the shores of proud Peru. • I " THE DEATH OF DE SOTO." 23 And northward, now, from Tampa Bay, With glittering spear and lance. With pennons gay, and horse's neigh, His cohorts brave advance. Again as the glittering dawn awakes From its dreams of purple mist, by the stolid priest he kneels and takes The holy eucharist. And the echoing woods and boundless skies Are hushed to soft content, As the strains of the old ** Te Deum " rise On a new continent. Again he sees in the thicket damp, By the light of a ghastly moon, The crocodile foul from his native swamp Plunge in the dark lagoon. Again o'er the wide Savannahs flee, From his feet, the frightened deer. And the curlews scream from tree to tree Their strange, wild notes of fear. The wild macaw on her silken nest. Mid the orange blossoms white, From her scarlet breast and golden crest Flashes the noonday light. In the waving grass on the yucca spires, Flowers of pallid hue Blend with the erythrina's fires, And the starry nixia's blue. i»mmmm9^\ c. i;ia ,M m ^*»»* I 24 " THE DEA TH OF DE SOTO," The rich gordonia blossom swells Where the brooklet ripples by, And the silvery-white halesia bells Reflect the cloudless sky. And southern mosses, soft and brown, With gleaming ivies twine, And heavy purple blooms weigh down The wild wislaiia vine. Now on his bold Castilian band T jc native warriors press From their haunts in the trackless prairie land, And the unknown wilderness. And the flame he has kindled gleams again On his sword of trusty steel, As he burns, mid the yells of savage men. Their village of Mobile. Like the look of triumph o'er victories won That dying conquerors wore, Or the light that bursts from the setting sun On some wild, rugged shore. The fire of hope lights up anew The brave advenluier's brow — A roseate flash, then death's dull hue—* And his dream is over now 1 So on the plain where Cypress groves And spreading palm-trees rise. And the antlered deer, swift-footed, roves. The brave De Soto dies. A, W, Eafon TIGER TO TIGRESS, as TIGER TO TIGRESS. The sultry jungle holds its breath ; The palsied night is dumb as death ; The golden stars burn large and bland Above this torrid Indian land ; But we, that hunger's pangs distress, Crouch low in deadly watchfulness, With sleek striped shapes of massive size, Great velvet paws, and lurid eyes ! Hark ! did you hear that stealthy sound Where yonder monstrous ferns abound ? Some lissome leopard pauses there ; Let him creep nearer, if he dare ! . . . And hark again ! in yonder grove I hear that lazy serpent move ; A mottled thing, whose languid strength Coils round a bough its clammy length. Soon the late moon that crimsons air Will fall with mellow splendour where The Rajah's distant palace shows Its haughty domes in dark repose. And from this din lair, byand-by, We shall behold against pale sky, With mighty gorges robed in gloom, The wild, immense Himalayas loom ! At moonrise, through this very spot. You still remember, do you not. How that proud Punjaub youth, last night, Sprang past us on his charger white, 26 A VENGEANCE. Perchance to have some fair hand throw A rose from some seraglio ? . . . Well, if to-night he passes, note My hot leap at his horse's throat ! A VENGEANCE. From savage pass and rugged shore The noise of angry hosts had fled ; The bitter battle raged no more. Where fiery bolts had wrought their scars, And where the dying and the dead In many a woful heap were flung, While night above the iEgean hung Its melancholy maze of stars. One boyish Greek, of princely line, Lay splashed with blood and wounded sore ; His wan face in its anguish bore That delicate symmetry divine. Carved by the old sculptors of his land, A broken blade was in his hand, Half slipping from the forceless hold That once had swayed it long and well ; And round his form in tatters fell The velvet raiment flowered with gold. But while the calm night later grew. He heard a stealthy and rustling sound, Like one who trailed on laggard knee A shattered shape along the ground. And soon with sharp surprise he knew That in the encircling gloom profound A VENGEANCE, A fierce Turk crawled by slow degrees To where in helpless pain he lay. Then, too, he witnessed with dismay That from the prone Turk's rancorous eye Flashed the barbaric lurid trace Of hate's indomitable hell, — Such hate as death alone could quell. As death alone could satisfy. Closer the loitering figure drew. With naked bosom red from fight, With ruthless fingers clutching tight A dagger stained by murderous hue. Till now, in one great lurch, he threw His whole frame forward, aiming quick A deadly inexorable blow, That weakly faltering, missed its mark. And left the assassin breathing thick, Levelled by nerveless overthrow. There, near the Greek chief, in the dark. Then he that saw the baffled crime, Half careless of his life's release, Since death must win him soon as prey, Turned on his foe a smile sublime With pity, and the stars of Greece Beheld him smile, and only they. 27 All night the two lay side by side, Each near to death, yet living each ; All night the grim Turk moaned and cried, Beset with pangs of horrid thirst. Save when his dagger crept to reach. By wandering ineflectual way. The prostrate Greek he yearned to slay, And failure stung him till he cursed. 28 THE VOICE OF THE PINE. But when soft prophecies of morn Had wrapt the sea in wistful white, A band of men, with faces worn, Clomb inland past a beetling height, To find the young chief they adored, Sought eagerly since fall of sun. And now in ghastly change restored. . . . One raised a torch of ruddy shine, And kneeling by their leader, one Set to his mouth a gourd of wine. Then the young Greek, with wave of hand. Showed the swart Pagan at his side, So motioning to the gathered band That none could choose but understand — ** Let this man drink I " he said, and died. Edgar Fawcett, THE VOICE OF THE PINE. 'Tis night upon the lake. Our bed of boughs Is built where— high above — the pine-tree soughs. 'Tis still, — and yet what woody noises loom Against the background of the silent gloom ! One well might hear the opening of a flower If day were hushed as this. A mimic shower Just shaken from a branch, how large it sounded. As 'gainst our canvas roof its three drops bounded ! Across the rumpling waves the hoot-owl's bark Tolls forth the midnight hour upon the dark. What mellow booming from the hills doth come ?— The mountain quarry strikes its mightv drum» .■■v,'a.^[W.MiiJ .1 THE VOICE OF THE PINE. 29 Long had we Iain beside our pine-wood fire, From things of sport our talk had risen higher; How frank and intimate the words of men When tented lonely in some forest glen ! No dallying now with masks, from whence emerges Scarce one true feature forth. The night-wind urges To straight and simple speech. So we had thought Aloud ; no well-hid secrets but were brought To light. The spiritual hopt-s, the wild, Unreasoned longings that, from child to child, Mortals still cherish (though with modern shame), — To these, and things like these, we gave a name ; And as we talked, the intense and resinous fire Lit up the towering boles, till nigh and nigher They gathered round, a ghostly company, Like beasts \\\\o seek to know what men may be. Then to our hemlock beds, but not to sleep, — • For listening to the stealthy steps that creep About the tent or falling branch, but most A noise was like the rustling of a host, Or like the sea that breaks upon the shore, — It was like the pine-tree's murmur. More and more It took a human sound. These words I felt Into the skyey darkness flood and melt : " Heardst thou these wanderers reasoning of a time "When men more near the Eternal One shall climb ? How like the new-born child, who cannot te'l A mother's arm that wraps it warm and we ' Leaves of His rose ; drops in His sea that flow, — Are they, alas, so blind they may not know Here, in this breathing world of joy and fear, They can no nearer get to God than here." R, W. Gilder. 30 THE WILD RIDE, THE WILD RIDE. I HEAR in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses All day, the commotion of sinewy mane-tossing horses ; All night, from their cells, the importunate tramping and neighing. Let cowards and laggards fall back I but alert to the saddle, Straight, grim, and abreast, vault our weather-worn galloping legion, With a stirrup-cup each to the one gracious woman tbpake one simple language, And Clote Scarp understood, And, in his tones of music, Taught them that Love was good ! fiV mmmmmm 64 THE PASSING OF CLOTE SCARP, But, in the course of ages, An alien spirit woke, And men and woodland creatures Their peaceful comj)act broke ;---- Then, — through the gloomy forest, The hunter tracked his prey, The bear and wolf went roaming To ravage and to slay ; — Through the long reeds and grasses Stole out the slimy snake. The hawk pounced on the birdling Close nestling in the brake ; — The beaver built his stronghold Beneath the river's flow, The partridge sought the coverts Where beeches thickest grt w ; In pain and trembling terror Each timid creature fled To seek a safer refuge And hide its hunted head ! (^ I: In sorrow and in anger Then gentle Clote Scarp spake : '* My soul can bear no longer The havoc that ye make ; Ye will not heed my bidding, — I cannot stay your strife ; And so I needs must leave you Till Love renew your life ! " - fM«IAJ*«>lWW^(j H THE PASSING OF CLOTE SCARP. 5$ Then, by the great, wide water, He spread a parting feast ; — The men refused his bidding. But there came bird and beast : There came the bear and walrus, — The wolf, with bristling crest, — There came the busy beaver, — The deer, with bounding breast ; There came the mink and otter, The seal, with wistful eyes, The birds, in countless numbers With sad imploring cries ! \l I y And, when the feast was over, He launched his bark canoe ; — The wistful creatures watched him Swift gliding from their view ; — They heard his far-off singing Through the fast-falling night, Till, on the dim horizon. He vanished fiom their sight ; And then, a wail of sorrow Went up from one and all ; Then echoed through the twilight The Loon's long mournful call. Still through the twilight echoes That cadeiice wild and shrill, But, in a blessed island, Clote Scarp is waiting still ; 495 66 BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT. No cold or dark or tempest Comes near that happy spot ; It fears no touch of winter For winter's self is not ! And there is Clote Scarp waiting Till happier days shall fall, Till strife be fled for ever, And Love be Lord of all ! Agnes Maude Machan BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT. (From the Gaelic. ) *' Bendourain is a forest scene in the wilds of Glenorchy. The poem, or lay, is descriptive, less of the forest, or its mountain fastnesses, than of the habits of the creatures that tenant the loc;ility — the (hin-deer and the roe. So minutely enthusiastic is the hunter's treatment of his theme, that the attempt to win any favour for hia performance from the Saxon reader ia attended with no small risk. The composition is always rehearsed or sung to pipe music, of which it is considered, by those wlio understand the original, a most extraordinary echo, besides being in otlier respects a very powerful specimen of Gaelic minstrelsy." — Scottish Minstrelsy. Urlar, The noble Otter hill I It is a chieftain Beinn,* Ever the fairest still Of all these eyes have seen. Spacious is his side ; I love to range where hide, • Anglicised into Bm. L mBUM BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT, 67 In haunts by few espied, The nurslings of his den. In the bosky shade Of the velvet glade, Couch, in softness laid. The nimble-footed deer ; To see the spotted pack, That in scenting never slack. Coursing on their track. Is the prime of cheer. Merry may the stag be, The lad that so fairly Flourishes the russet coat That fits him so rarely. 'Tis a mantle whose wear Time shall not tear ; 'Tis a banner that ne'er Sees its colours depart : And when they seek his doom, Let a man of action come, A hunter in his bloom, With rifle not untried : A notch'd, firm fasten'd flint, To strike a trusty dint, And make the gun-lock glint With a flash of pride. Let the barrel be but true, And the stock be trusty too, So, Lightfoot,* though he flew. Shall be purple-dyed. He should not be novice bred, But a marksman of first head, By whom that stag is sped. In hill-craft not unskill'd ; • The deer. ' ' 68 BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT. So, when Padraig of the glen Call'd his hounds and men, The hill spake back again, As his orders shrill'd ; Then was firing snell. And the bullets rain'd like hail, And the red -deer fell Like warrior on the field. SiuhhaU Oh, the young doe so frisky, So coy, and so fair. That gambols so briskly, And snuffs up the air ; And hurries, retiring. To the rocks that environ, When foemen are firing. And bullets are there. Though swift in her racing. Like the kinsfolk before her, No heart-burst, unbracing Her strength, rushes o'er her. 'Tis exquisite hearing Her murmur, as, nearing. Her mate comes careering, Her pride, and her lover ;— He comes — and her breathing Her rapture is telling ; How his antlers are wreathing. His white haunch, how swelling ! High chief of Bendourain, He seems, as adoring His hind, he comes roaring To visit her dwelling. L vmaammtsBmmm BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT 69 'Twere endless my singing How the mountain is teeming With thousands, that brin^jing Each a high chief's* proud seeming, With his hind, and her gala Of younglings, that follow O'er mountain and beala,t All lightsome are beaming. When that lightfoot so airy, Her race is pursuing, Oh, what vision saw e'er a Feat of flight like her doing ? She springs, and the spreading grass Scarce feels her treading. It were fleet foot that sped in Twice the time that she flew in. The gallant array ! How the marshes they spurn, In the frisk of their -play, And the wheeling they turn,— As the cloud of the mind They would distance behind, And give years to the wind, In the pride of their scorn 1 *Tis the marrow of health In the forest to lie, Where, nooking in stealth, They enjoy her it supply, — Her fosterage breeding A race never needing. Ii * Stag of the first head. f Pass. X Any one who has heard a native attempt tne ix)wiancl tongue for the first time is familiar with the personification that turns every inanimate object into ht or she. The forest is here happily personified as a nurse or mother. ^■n 70 BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT. Save the milk of her feeding, From a breast never dry. Her hill grass they suckle, Her mammets they swill. And in wantonness chuckle O'er tempest and chill, With their ankles so light, And their girdles of white, And their bodies so bright With the drink of the rill. Through the grassy glen sporting In murmurless glee, Nor snow-drift nor fortune Shall urge them to flee, Save to seek their repose In the clefts of the knowes. And the depths of the howes Of their own Eas-an-ti.* Urlar, In the forest den, the deer Makes, as best befits, her lair, Where is plenty, and to spare, Of her grassy feast. There she browses free On herbage of the lea, Or marsh grass, daintily, Until her haunch is greased. Her drink is of her well, Where the water-cresses swell, Nor with the flowing shell Is the toper better pleased. * Gaelic — Easan-an-tsith. 1 ^ I BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT 71 The bent makes nobler cheer, Or the rashes of the mere, Then all the creagh that e'er Gave surfeit to a guest. Come, see her table spread ; The sorach * sweet display'd, The calvifi' and the head Of the daisy stem ; The iiorachX crested, sleek, And ringed with many a streak, Presents her pastures meek. Profusely by the stream. Such the luxuries That plump their noble size, And the herd entice To revel in the howes. Nobler haunches never sat on Pride of grease, than when they batten On the forest links, and fatten On the herbs of their carouse. Oh, 'tis pleasant, in the gloaming, When the supper-time Calls all their hosts from roaming, To see their social prime ; And when the shadows gather, They lair on native heather, Nor shelter from the weather Need, but the knolls behind. Dread or dark is none ; Their's the mountain throne. Height and slope their own, The gentle mountain kind ; Pleasant is the grace * Sorrel. t St. John's -wort. t A kind of cress or marsh-mallow. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) 1.0 I.I 11.25 m iiM ;i IAS IIIIIM U IIIIII.6 v^ V) c> // / /A Photographic Sdences Corporation 33 WfST MAIN STREiT WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80 (716) 872-4S03 iV ^v L1>^ A \ ^.