And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

'Oh, for a soft and gentle wind!'
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free-

While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

Allan Cunningham

THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

In this poem, one of the most popular and most beautiful written by Sir Walter Scott, the primitive and warlike kind of life formerly existing in the Highlands of Scotland is vividly described. The 'Lady of the Lake' was published in May 1810, and immediately met with great and deserved success. Crowds flocked the same year to behold for themselves the 'wondrouswild' scenery of that part of Perthshire depicted in the poem; and for some time all the places of entertainment were filled. It was then that Scotland became one of the favourite resorts of tourists, which it has since continued to be.

THE stag at eve had drunk his fill,

Where danced the moon on Monan's rill,

And deep his midnight lair had made

In lone Glenartney's hazel shade;

But, when the sun his beacon red

Had kindled on Benvoirlich's* head,

The deep-mouthed 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 call,
"To arms! the foemen storm the wall!"
The antlered monarch of the waste
Sprang 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,
Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky;
A moment gazed adown the dale,
A moment snuffed the tainted gale,
A moment listened to the cry,

That thickened as the chase drew nigh;
Then, as the headmost foes appeared,
With one brave bound the copse he cleared,
And, stretching forward free and far,
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.
Yelled on the view the opening pack;
Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back;
To many a mingled sound at once
The awakened mountain gave response.
A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong,
Clattered a hundred steeds along,
Their peal the merry horns rang out,
A hundred voices joined 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 cowered 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
Returned 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
Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var,
And roused the cavern, where, 'tis told
A giant made his den of old:

* One of the Grampians.

For ere that steep ascent was won,
High in his pathway hung the sun,
And many a gallant, stayed 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.

"Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er,
As swept the hunt through Cambus-more;
What reins were tightened in despair,
When rose Benledi's ridge in air;
Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath,
Who shunned 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 reached the lake of Vennachar;
And when the Brig 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,
Embossed with foam, and dark with soil,
While every gasp with sobs he drew,
The labouring Stag strained full in view.
Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed,
Unmatched 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 toiled the bloodhounds 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 marked that mountain high,
The lone lake's western boundary,
And deemed the Stag must turn to bay,
Where that huge rampart barred the way;
Already glorying in the prize,

Measured his antlers with his eyes;

For the death-wound and death-halloo,

Mustered his breath, his whinyard * drew;

A short hanger used as a knife at meals, and as a sword in broils.-Jamieson.

But, thundering as he came prepared,
With ready arm and weapon bared,
The wily quarry shunned the shock,
And turned 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 couched, 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 yelled again.
Close on the hounds the hunter came,
To cheer them on the vanished 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,
Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more.
Then, touched with pity and remorse,
He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse :-
"I little thought, when first thy rein
I slacked 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 grey!"

The hunter recalled his dogs by an echoing blast on his horn, and wandering on, lost his way.

And now, to issue from the glen,
No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,
Unless he climb, with footing nice,

A far projecting precipice.

The broom's tough roots his ladder made,
The hazel saplings lent their aid;
And thus an airy point he won,
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,
One burnished sheet of living gold,
Loch-Katrine lay beneath him rolled;
In all her length far winding lay,
With promontory, creek, and bay,
And islands that, empurpled bright,
Floated amid the livelier light;

And mountains, that like giants stand,
To sentinel enchanted land.

D

From the steep promontory gazed
The Stranger, raptured and amazed.

But scarce again his horn he wound,
When lo! forth starting at the sound,
From underneath an aged oak,
That slanted from the islet rock,
A Damsel, guider of its way,
A little skiff shot to the bay,
That round the promontory steep
Led its deep line in graceful sweep,
Eddying, in almost viewless wave,
The weeping willow twig to lave,
And kiss, with whispering sound and slow,
The beach of pebbles bright as snow.
The boat had touched this silver strand,
Just as the Hunter left his stand,

And stood concealed amid the brake,

To view this Lady of the Lake.

Ere long he advanced from his concealment, and making known his benighted condition, was conducted by the maiden to her home on the islet in the lake.

The mistress of the mansion came,
Mature of age, a graceful dame;
Whose easy step and stately port
Had well become a princely court,

To whom, though more than kindred knew,

Young Ellen gave a mother's due.

Meet welcome to her guest she made,
And every courteous right was paid,
That hospitality could claim,

Though all unasked his birth and name.
Such then the reverence to a guest,
That fellest foe might join the feast,
And from his deadliest foeman's door
Unquestioned turn, the banquet o'er.
At length his rank the Stranger names-
"The knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James;
Lord of a barren heritage,

Which his brave sires, from age to age,
By their good swords had held with toil;
His sire had fallen in such turmoil,
And he, forsooth, was forced to stand
Oft for his right with blade in hand.
This morning with Lord Moray's train
He chased a stalwart stag in vain,
Outstripped his comrades, missed the deer,
Lost his good steed, and wandered here."