And roused the cavern, where 'tis told

A giant made his den of old;"

For ere that steep ascent was won,

High in his path-way hung the sun,

And many a gallant, stay'd per-force, Was fain to breathe his faultering 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.

V.

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 waved 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 with unwearied race,

And left behind the panting chase.

VI.

"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.

VII.

one, but with unbated zea,

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's 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-hound 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.

VIII.

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;

Already glorying in the prize,

Measured his antlers with his eyes;

For the death-wound, and death-halloo,
Muster'd his breath, his whinyard drew;
But thundering as he came prepared,
With ready arm and weapon bared,
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 Trosach's 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.

IX.

Close on the hounds the hunter came,

To cheer them on the vanish'd

game;

But, stumbling in the rugged dell,
His 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 grey !"—