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LADY OF THE LAKE.
HARP of the North! that mouldering long hast hung On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring, And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,
Till envious ivy did around thee cling, Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,—
O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep? Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,
Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?
Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,
Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,
Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud, At each according pause, was heard aloud
Thine ardent symphony sublime and high ! Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow'd; For still the burthen of thy minstrelsy
Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's matchless eye.
O wake once more! how rude soe'er the hand
And all unworthy of thy nobler strain,
The wizard note has not been touch'd in vain. Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!
THE Stag at eve had drunk his fill,
But, when the sun his beacon red
Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head,
The deep-mouth'd blood-hound'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 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 gazed adown the dale,
That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh;
With one brave bound the copse he clear'd,
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,
Less loud the sounds of sylvan war