ΤΟ THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT, M. A. Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. THE scenes are desart now, and bare, Where flourish'd once a forest fair, When these waste glens with copse were lined, Yon Thorn-perchance whose prickly spears Since he, so grey and stubborn now, What pines on every mountain sprung, In every breeze what aspens shook, What alders shaded every brook! "Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say "The mighty stag at noon-tide lay: The wolf' I've seen, a fiercer game, (The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) With lurching step around me prowl, And stop against the moon to howl; * Mountain-ash. The mountain-boar, on battle set, His tusks upon my stem would whet A thousand vassals muster'd round, With horse, and hawk, and horn and hound; And I might see the youth intent, Guard every pass with cross-bow bent; And through the brake the rangers stalk, And falc'ners hold the ready hawk; And foresters, in green-wood trim, Attentive, as the bratchet's* bay From the dark covert drove the prey, To slip them as he broke away. The startled quarry bounds amain, As fast the gallant grey-hounds strain; * Slow hound. |