Where the summer sunbeam plays O’er the long-drawn leafy ways, Down through tremulous gleams of green, On some spot at distance seen; Where the foliage opens brightly, If the fallow-deer bound lightly; Well the swiftly passing gleam Mingles into fancy’s dream, See in shadowy light appear Some old hunter of the deer, Through the stillness of the wood, Bent in listening attitude; Then amid the haunted glade Melt away in distant shade. Were not life as brief and frail As a gossip’s idle tale, What eventful hours might be Here recalled to memory! Straight upon the visioned sight, Through the rifts of leafy light, Where yon verdurous dusk disparts, What strange cloud of blackness starts ’Tis the grim and gloomy hold; Which ruled here in days of old, Leaving a name where once it stood; ’Tis the “castle in the wood.” Lo! from parapet and tower Frowns the pride of ancient power-- Lo! from out the cullised port Pours the storm of raid or sport; Haughty eye and ruthless hand Iron chief and ruthless band; Well the robber chief I know, Tracked by many a home of woe. Onward bound; nor far behind Swells a murmur on the wind-- From his kerne and lowring prey, Pride of pastures far away, Hither bound from foray rude, To his “castle in the wood.” Still the pageant nears--but lo; Fancy shifts the gliding show, To a sight of gayer mood. On free air in sunshine glancing, See a jovial train advancing, Bright housed steed and palfrey prancing, Horn and hound and hawk are there, Spear and scarf, and mantle fair, Sport and jest, and laughter gay, Shout and jolly hark away! On the glittering pageant streams, Vanishing in golden gleams. Next across the shadowy lawn, Cowled and cinctured form glides on With ruddy cheek though solemn gear, Full glad it seems of journey done, That started with the rising sun, And confident of jovial cheer; Such never yet was wanting here. Who follows fast, with footstep light, And eye of fire, and garment white? O, now the child of song I know, For the sun on his tuneful harp is bright! And free on the wind his long locks flow-- O! glad will they be in yon halls below. But all is gone--one sober glance Hath whirled in air the fitful trance, The visioned wood that fancy ranged, Is still a wood, but O, how changed! Ancient Power’s, barbaric sway, Iron deeds have passed away-- Superstition’s gloomy hour, With the tyrant’s feudal power-- All have passed!--and in their stead, Piety with reverent head, Sense, and mild humanity, Polished hospitality, Taste that spreads improvement round, On the old paternal ground; And without its blood and crime, Keeps the grace of elder time. SCRAPS FROM THE NORTHERN SCRIP.