“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; The mountain-boar, on battle set, His tusks upon my stem would whet; While doe, and roe, and red-deer good, Have bounded by, through gay greenwood. Then oft, from Newark’s riven tower, 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 crossbow bent; And through the brake the rangers stalk, And falc’ners hold the ready hawk; And foresters in greenwood trim, Lead in the leash the gazehounds 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 greyhounds strain; Whistles the arrow from the bow, Answers the arquebuss below; While all the rocking hills reply, To hoof-clang, hound, and hunter’s cry, And bugles ringing lightsomely.” Of such proud huntings many tales Yet linger in our lonely dales, Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow, Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow. But not more blithe that silvan court, Than we have been at humbler sport; Though small our pomp, and mean our game Our mirth, dear Mariott, was the same. Remember’st thou my greyhounds true? O’er holt or hill there never flew, From slip or leash there never sprang, 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, And held poetic talk between; Nor hill nor brook we paced along But had its legend or its song. All silent now—for now are still Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill! No longer, from thy mountains dun, The yeoman hears the well-known gun, And while his honest heart glows Warm, 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 chase, And ape, in manly step and tone, The majesty of Oberon: And she is gone, whose lovely face Is but her least and lowest grace; Though if to sylphid queen ’twere given To show our earth the charms of Heaven, She could not glide along the air, With form more light, or face more fair. No more the widow’s deafened ear Grows quick that lady’s step to hear: At noontide she expects her not, Nor busies her to trim the cot: Pensive she turns her humming wheel,