THE CHACE,

A BALLAD.

BY ANDREW MERCER.

WHERE Loch-Mary roars round its mountainous shores,

And lends the young Yarrow* its wave; Where Dryhope is dun with the sultry sun, Stood the castle of Gilbert the brave: Of Gilbert, the fear of the southern race,

In the moon-light combat afar on the hill, The boast of the forest, and chief in the chace, Whose stern eye of war, and whose love-soften'd grace Were the pride of the fair Anne Morville.

At the fall of even, when dusky the heaven,
The lovers had met in the grove,

To breathe their soft vows, beneath the green boughs,
Where the cushat sat cooing above.

They whispered the date of the nuptial day,

And sigh'd that three mornings were yet to awake;

His sigh was deep as his rage in the fray,

And the love of the damsel was mild as the ray
That now play'd on the heaving lake.

In the following morn, at the sound of the horn,
The yell of the huntsmen arose,
And the clarion shrill shook every hill,

As if trod by a thousand foes!

O gay was the revel along the green,

When the quivered horsemen skirmishing join'd!

But never a chief of so gallant a mien,

Though many assembled, on that day was seen,
As Gilbert, whose bow hung behind.

*The river Yarrow flows out of St. Mary's Lock.

C

Ah many a hart from his hind shall depart,
And the dens of his love in the wood,
And the bristled boar shall welter in gore,

Far, far from his last night's abode :

But though all the beasts of the mountains fall,
Can the red tide atone for a ruddier stain!
A hundred antlers hung in the hall,

And the trophied tusks of the boar were but small,
For the life of a Chieftain slain!

Lo start the dun roes at the sound of their foes,
And the fear of the hunter's wile,

For with bugle and hounds the region resounds,
O'er many a copse-covered mile!

And a hundred coursers neigh'd in the wind,

On the green hills of Henderland* sounding afar, The lake of St. Mary the revelry join'd,

And thundered throughout to its mountains behind,
The shout of the woodland war!

Ere felt was the power of the noon-day hour,
Ten deer fell by Gilbert's hand,

And twice six more were pierced at the core,
By the rest of the hunter band;

When furious, and foaming his hungry teeth,

A bellowing boar rushed on thro' the dell,
A tempest of arrows, swift-ridden by death,
Discharged on the monster its ravenous wrath,
But more than a monster fell!

Sigh ye sons of the bow for the hunter laid low,
By the chance-erring arrow misled,

And bewail the sad hour, ye Dames of the bower,
And comfort the bride of the dead!

* A beautiful farm by the side of St. Mary's Loch.

For fallen is the fear of the southern race,

In the moon-light combats afar on the hill,,
The boast of the Forest, and chief in the chace;
Whose stern eye of war, and whose love-soften'd grace,
Were the pride of fair Anne Morville!

And deep did you grieve, and your bosoms heave,
Ye Chieftains and Dames of the hall,

But the hapless bride, when she heard he had died,
She wept not-she wept none at all!

For the blasting news, like a bolt of the sky,

In a moment had dried up, and wither'd her brain, Not a tear-drop remained to moisten her eye, And the soul-moving spark of her reason did fly, And never returned again!

Despair gnawed his prey in her bosom by day,
'Mid the darkest abode of the tower,

And she went to the grove, to meet with her Love,
At the blue and moon-light hour.

And thence, as the mood of her madness inclin'd,
She flew to the spot where the hunter fell,
Embraced each bush with a pressure so kind,
As though she believed, in her nerve-broken mind,
That her lover was yet in the dell !

Soon her body she gave to her Gilbert's grave,
That bloom'd in the beechen grove,

Where they breathed their soft vows, beneath the green boughs

While the cushat sat cooing above.

And the villager yet, while he points out the place,
Relates with a sigh their sad story of woe,
And adds, that they woo'd 'mong a mortal race,
But were wedded above, with celestial grace,
Which the children of earth cannot know!
ETTERICK FOREST,

PARAPHRASTIC VERSION

OF THE 46th PSALM.

BY T. PARK, ESQ.

OUR hope, our strength, our refuge is our God!
On Him reposing-Fear in vain annoys ;—
Though from their solid base huge mountains nod,
And earth, unbalanc'd, lose her central poise.

Though Alpine mounds should in the sea be hurl'd,
. While Ocean trembles with convulsive roar,—
Though one vast tempest desolate the world,
Still Faith may anchor on a tranquil shore.
For all the ravage of this finite sphere,

Can do the city of our God no ill :-
The holy place He plants his dwelling near,
Smiles at the storm that baffles human skill.

Though heathen nations in their strength rejoice,
And all the terrors of the earth array ;~

Let but our God uplift his single voice,
And even Earth herself shall melt away.

The God of Jacob is our only God!

The Lord of Hosts is our Almighty Lord! Fear then the wrath of his destroying rod,

And dread the vengeance of his two-edg'd sword.

Legions of warriors-in their proud career
He checks, and makes them fearfully retire,
snaps in sunder the uplifted spear,

He

And wraps their chariots in consuming fire.

With silent reverence then, obey his nod;
And let the heathen world exulting own
The God of Jacob is the only God!

The Lord of Hosts must be the Lord alone!

INSCRIPTION

For the Ivy Bower in the Grove near Dromore House.

STRANGER, whose curious eye, delighted, strays
Around the little Glen's romantic maze,
Where Genius rising from the vale of years,
In venerable vigour still appears,

Pause bere!-'tis meditation's fav'rite seat-
And as you enter with due rev'rence greet
The sober, silent, solitary power,
Whose sacred presence dignifies the bower.
Does worldly care or grief thy soul oppress ?
Her soothing influence will relieve distress ;
Her admonition teach thee to be wise;
Her sanction prové a passport to the skies.

DROMORE, AUG. 1805.

HAFIZ.