HUNTING SONG.

WAKEN lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,

"Waken lords and ladies gay."

Waken lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming:
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
"Waken lords and ladies gay."

Waken lords and ladies gay,
To the green wood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;

We can show the marks he made,

When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed;

You shall see him brought to bay, "Waken lords and ladies gay."

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken lords and ladies gay!

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we:

Time, stern huntsman! who can balk, Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk: Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay.

THE VIOLET.

THE violet in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazles mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue,

Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining; I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through wat'ry lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
Nor longer in my false love's eye

Remained the tear of parting sorrow.

TO A LADY,

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.

TAKE these flowers which, purple waving,

On the ruined rampart grew, Where, the sons of freedom braving, Rome's imperial standards flew.

Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there:
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.

THE

BARD'S INCANTATION.

WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE` AUTUMN OF 1804.

THE Forest of Glenmore is drear,

It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
And the midnight wind to the mountain deer,
Is whistling the forest lullaby:

The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.

There is a voice among the trees

That mingles with the groaning oakThat mingles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock;There is a voice within the wood,

The voice of the Bard in fitful mood;

His song was louder than the blast,

As the Bard of Glenmore through the forest past.