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Not long shall honour'd Douglas dwell,
Like hunted stag in mountain cell;
Nor, ere yon pride-swoll'n robber dare-
I may not give the rest to air !
Tell Poderick Dhu, I owed him nought,
Not the poor service of a boat,
To waft me to yon mountain-side.”
Then plunged he in the flashing tide.'
Bold o'er the flood his head he bore,
And stoutly steer'd him from the shore;
And Allan strain'd his anxious eye,
Far 'mid the lake his form to spy.
Darkening across each puny wave,
To which the moon her silver gave,
Fast as the cormorant could skim,
The swimmer plied each active limb;
Then landing in the moonlight dell,
Loud shouted of his weal to tell.
The Minstrel heard the far halloo,
And joyful from the shore withdrew.

[MS.-" He spoke, and plunged into the tide." ]

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The Gathering.


Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore,'

Who danced our infancy upon their knee, And told our marvelling boyhood legends store,

Of their strange ventures happ'd by land or sca, How are they blotted from the things that be!

How few, all weak and wither’d of their force, Wait on the verge of dark eternity,

Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, To sweep them from our sight! Time rolls his cease

less course.

Yet live there still who can remember well,

How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew, Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell,


[“There are no separate introductions to the cantos of this poem; but each of them begins with one or two slanzas in the measure of Spenser, usually containing some reflections connected with the subject about to be entered on; and written, for the most part, with great tenderness and beauty. The following, we think, is among the most striking."-JEFFREY.]

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