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As if in his soul the bold Animal smiled
Yes ! fierce looks thy nature, ev’n hush'd in
reposeIn the depth of thy desert regardless of foes. Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar With a haughty defiance to come to the war ! No outrage is war to a creature like thee ! The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee, As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind, And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. In the beams of thy forehead that glitter with death, In feet that draw power from the touch of the
heath, In the wide-raging torrent that lends thee its roar,In the cliff that once trod must be trodden no
more, Thy trust—'mid the dangers that threaten thy
reign ! --But what if the stag on the mountain be slain ? On the brink of the rock-lo! he standeth at
bay, Like a victor that falls at the close of the dayWhile hunter and hound in their terror retreat From the death that is spurn'd from his furious
And his last cry of anger comes back from the
skies, As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. High life of a hunter! he meets on the hill The new-waken’d daylight, so bright and so still ; And feels, as the clouds of the morning unroll, The silence, the splendour, ennoble his soul.
'Tis his o'er the mountains to stalk like a ghost, Enshrouded with mist, in which nature is lost, Till he lifts up his eyes, and flood, valley, and
height, In one moment all swim in an ocean of light; While the sun, like a glorious banner unfurl'd, Seems to wave o'er a new, more magnificent world. 'Tis his-by the mouth of some cavern his seat The lightning of heaven to hold at his feet, While the thunder below him that growls from
the cloud, To him comes on echo more awfully loud. When the clear depth of noon-tide, with glittering
motion, O'erflows the lone glens- -an aërial oceanWhen the earth and the heavens, in union pro
found, Lie blended in beauty that knows not a soundAs his eyes in the sunshiny solitude close 'Neath a rock of the desert in dreaming repose, He sees, in his slumbers, such visions of old As his wild Gaelic songs to his infancy told ; O’er the mountains a thousand plumed hunters are
borne, And he starts from his dream at the blast of the
horn. Yes! child of the desert ! fit quarry were thou For the hunter that came with a crown on his
brow, By princes attended with arrow and spear, In their white-tented camp, for the warfare of deer. In splendour the tents on the green summit stood, And brightly they shone from the glade in the
And, silently built by a magical spell,
died. Not lonely and single they pass'd o'er the height But thousands swept by in their hurricane-flight; And bow'd to the dust in their trampling tread Was the plumage on many a warrior's head. -“ Fall down on your faces !—the herd is at
hand !” -And onward they came like the sea o'er the
Like the snow from the mountain when loosen'd
by rain ; And rolling along with a crash to the plain ; Like a thunder-split oak-tree, that falls in one
shock With his hundred wide arms from the top of the
rock, Like the voice of the sky, when the black cloud is
near, So sudden, so loud, came the tempest of Deer. Wild mirth of the desert! fit pastime for kings ! Which still the rude Bard in his solitude sings.. Oh reign of magnificence! vanish'd for ever! Like music dried up in the bed of a river, Whose course hath been changed ! yet my soul
can survey The clear cloudless morn of that glorious day. Yes! the wide silent forest is as of yore, And the far-ebbed grandeur rolls back to the shore. I wake from my trance !-lo! the Sun is declin
And the Black-mount afar in his lustre is shining.
-One soft golden gleam ere the twilight prevail ! Then down let me sink to the cot in the dale, Where sings the fair maid to the viol so sweet, Or the floor is alive with her white twinkling feet, Down, down like a bird to the depth of the dell ! -Vanish'd Creature ! I bid thy fair image fare
THERE's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day
long ; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet
dream To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. That bower and its music I never forget ;
But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, I think—is the nightingale singing there yet ? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bende.
No; the roses are withered that hung o'er the
wave, But some blossoms were gathered while freshly
they shone ;
And a dew was distilled from their flowers that
gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was
gone. Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies
An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bende.
FROM THE IRISH MELODIES.
SHE is far from the land where her young hero
sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying !
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking : Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !
He had lived for his love, for his country he died ;
They were all that to life had entwined him ; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him!
Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;