Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold
We tried the rough path of the world by thy side;
But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold
And sinners may die, for the Sinless has died!
Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long; But the mild rays of paradise beam'd on thy waking,
And the sound which thou heard'st was the
Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,
Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide;
He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore
And death has no sting, for the Saviour has
THE Stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danc'd the moon on Monan's rill,
And deep his midnight lair had made
In lone Glenartney's hazel shade;
The places mentioned in this piece are in the vicinity of Loch Katrine, in the Western Highlands. The Teith flows from Loch Katrine through the Trosachs pass, by the foot of Ben Venue, and passes through the small lakes of Achray and Vennachar to Callender.
But when the sun his beacon red
Had kindled o'er Benvoirlich's head,
The deep-mouth'd bloodhound's heavy bay
Resounded up the rocky way,
And faint, from farther distance borne,
Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.
As chief who hears his warder's call,
"To arms! the foemen storm the wall,"
The antler'd monarch of the waste
Sprung from his heathery couch in haste.
But ere his fleet career he took,
The dew-drops from his flanks he shook
Like crested leader proud and high,
Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky;
A moment gaz'd adown the dale,
A moment snuff'd the tainted gale,
A moment listen'd to the cry,
That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh;
Then, as the headmost foes appear'd,
With one brave bound the copse he clear'd,
And, stretching forward free and far,
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.
Yell'd on the view the opening pack,
Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back;
To many a mingled sound at once
The awaken'd mountain gave response.
An hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong,
Clatter'd an hundred steeds along,
Their peals the merry horns rung out,
An hundred voices join'd the shout;
With hark and whoop and wild halloo,
No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew.
Far from the tumult fled the roe,
Close in her covert cower'd the doe,
The falcon, from her cairn on high,
Cast on the rout a wondering eye,
Till far beyond her piercing ken
The hurricane had swept the glen.
Faint, and more faint, its failing din
Return'd from cavern, cliff, and linn ',
And silence settled, wide and still,
On the lone wood and mighty hill.
Less loud the sounds of sylvan war
Disturb'd the heights of Uam-Var,
And rous'd the cavern, where 'tis told
A giant made his den of old;
For ere that steep ascent was won,
High in his pathway hung the sun,
And many a gallant, stay'd per-force,
Was fain to breathe his faltering horse,
And of the trackers of the deer
Scarce half the lessening pack was near;
So shrewdly on the mountain side,
Had the bold burst their mettle tried.
The noble Stag was pausing now
Upon the mountain's southern brow,
Where broad extended far beneath
The varied realms of fair Menteith.
With anxious eye he wander'd o'er
Mountain and meadow, moss and moor,
And ponder'd refuge from his toil,
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.
But nearer was the copse-wood gray,
That way'd and wept on Loch-Achray,
And mingled with the pine-trees blue
On the bold cliffs of Ben-venue.
Fresh vigour with the hope return'd,
With flying foot the heath he spurn'd,
Held westward the unwearied race,
And left behind the panting chase.
Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er,
As swept the hunt through Cambus-more;
What reins were tighten'd in despair,
When rose Benledi's ridge in air;
Who flagg'd upon Bochastle's heath,
Who shunn'd to stem the flooded Teith,-
For twice, that day, from shore to shore,
The gallant Stag swam stoutly o'er.
Few were the stragglers, following far,
That reach'd the lake of Vennachar;
And when the Brigg of Turk was won,
The headmost horseman rode alone.
Alone, but with unbated zeal,
That horseman plied the scourge and steel;
For, jaded now, and spent with toil,
Emboss'd with foam, and dark with soil,
While every gasp with sobs he drew,
The labouring Stag strain'd full in view.
Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's1 breed,
Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and speed,
Fast on his flying traces came,
And all but won that desperate game;
For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch,
Vindictive toil'd the blood-hounds staunch;
Nor nearer might the dogs attain,
Nor farther might the quarry strain.
Thus up the margin of the lake,
Between the precipice and brake,
O'er stock and rock their race they take.
The Hunter mark'd that mountain high,
The lone lake's western boundary,
And deem'd the Stag must turn to bay,
Where that huge rampart barr'd the way;
The patron saint of hunting, became bishop of Maestricht in 708, the see of which he transferred to Liege, where he died, in 721.
Already glorying in the prize,
Measur'd his antlers with his eyes;
For the death-wound, and death-halloo,
Muster'd his breath, his whinyard drew;-
But, thundering, as he came prepar'd,
With ready arm and weapon bar'd,
The wily quarry shunn'd the shock,
And turn'd him from the opposing rock;
Then, dashing down a darksome glen,
Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken,
In the deep Trosachs' wildest nook
His solitary refuge took.
There while, close couch'd, the thicket shed
Cold dews and wild flowers on his head,
He heard the baffled dogs in vain
Rave through the hollow pass amain
Chiding the rocks that yell'd again.
Close on the hounds the Hunter came,
To cheer them on the vanish'd game;
But, stumbling in the rugged dell,
The gallant horse exhausted fell.
The impatient rider strove in vain
To rouse him with the spur and rein,
For the good steed, his labours o'er,
Stretch'd his stiff limbs to rise no more;
Then touch'd with pity and remorse,
He sorrow'd o'er the expiring horse.
"I little thought, when first thy rein
I slack'd upon the banks of Seine,
That Highland eagle e'er should feed
On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed!
Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day,
That costs thy life, my gallant gray!".
Then through the dell his horn resounds,
From vain pursuit to call the hounds.
Back limp'd, with slow and crippled pace,
The sulky leaders of the chase:
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