The wild-eyed herd of buffaloes came Impetuous plunging through the flame; The antelopes in terror flying, On fleetest limbs in vain relying; The grouse fly round on whirring wings, Then blindly seek their funeral fires; The rattlesnake in anguish springs, Pierced with its own fang--writhes--expires. Long howls the wolf in dismal yell, Such as might shake the caves of hell, And many a wild, despairing cry Of brutes in mortal agony Falls thickly on McGregor’s ear, In wailings ominous and drear. ’Tis on him--now at last, Encircled by the fiery blast, McGregor stands With folded hands, Firm as a martyr when he braves The rack, the faggot, or the waves. Exhausted, panting, foaming, gasping, As though an iron band were clasping His laboring chest, Saladin sank With quivering side and streaming flank, While his pale rider rent the air With one sad groan of deep despair. Red rose the fire-cave’s crackling arch, Red rose the lurid walls around him, The hungry flames his pulses parch, And like a boa’s coils have bound him. The buffalo In dying throe, With furious hoof the hunter paws; The wolf with howl And shriek and growl In his red life’s blood bathes his jaws, And rends his limbs apart, And the expiring panther gnaws His palpitating heart, As if the long revenge they cherish Were eased if their old foe might perish. By the red moon’s ghostly light, Struggling through the murky vail, Dripping and dank with tears of night, And chill mist casting shadows pale, A voice of sorrow seems to wail, A fitful, sobbing, plaintive tone, Thrilling the pained air with its moan, As if some Ariel unsleeping, A death watch in the sky was keeping, His harp of tears in pity sweeping: “Rest, huntsman! from thy final chase, Rest, Saladin! from thy last, long race, Horseman and horse they both have gone; Dying with all their armor on, And slumbering in their last repose Together, circled by their foes.” THE OLD ROCK SPRING. I know not what of sadness strange, Comes over my soul to-day, As I think of Time’s unceasing change, And the friends he has snatched away; For Time has turned those locks to gray, Which were black as a raven’s wing, Of the boys and girls who used to play, Around the Old Rock Spring. II. Strange voices whisper from its depths, The tones of a far church bell, A sweet soprano’s melody A parting friend’s farewell, And phantoms flutter o’er its waves, Pale brides with wreath and ring; Then vanish like the bubbles that burst On the face of the Old Rock Spring. III.