The Earl nor pray'r nor pity heeds,
But furious keeps the onward way.

"Unmanner'd dog! To stop my sport Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, Though human spirits, of thy sort,

Were tenants of these carrion kine!”

Again he winds his bugle horn,

"Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!" And through the herd, in ruthless scorn He cheers his furious hounds to go.

In heaps the throttled victims fall;

Down sinks their mangl'd herdsman near; The murd❜rous cries the stag appal,Again he starts, new-nerv'd by fear.

With blood besmear'd, and white with foam, While big the tears of anguish pour,

He seeks, amid the forest's gloom,

The humble hermit's hallow'd bow'r.

But man, and horse, and horn, and bound,
Fast rattling on his traces go;

The sacred chapel rung around
With, "Hark away; and, holla, ho!”

All mild, amid the rout profane,

The holy hermit pour'd his pray'r;"Forbear with blood God's house to stain Revere his altar, and forbear!

"The meanest brute has rights to plead, Which, wrong'd by cruelty, or pride, Draw vengeance on the ruthless head:

Be warn'd at length, and turn aside,"

Still the Fair Horseman anxious pleads;
The Black, wild whooping, points the proy:-
Alas! the Earl no warning heeds,

But frantic keeps the forward way.

"Holy or not, or right or wrong,

Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn; Not sainted martyrs' sacred song,

Not God himself, shall make me turn!"

He spurs his horse, he winds his horn,
"Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!”.
But off, on whirlwind's pinions borne,
The stag, the hut, the hermit, go.

And horse, and man, and horn, and hound,
And clamour of the chase, was gone;
For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound,
A deadly silence reign'd alone.
Wild gaz'd the affrighted Earl around;
He strove in vain to wake his horn,
In vain to call; for not a sound
Could from his anxious lips be borne.
He listens for his trusty hounds;

No distant baying reach'd his ears:
His courser, rooted to the ground,
The quick`ning spur unmindful bears.

Still dark and darker frown the shades,
Dark, as the darkness of the grave;
And not a sound the still invades,

Save what a distant torrent gave,

High o'er the sinner's humbl'd head
At length the solemn silence broke;
And, from a cloud of swarthy red,

The awful voice of thunder spoke,

"Oppressor of creation fair!

Apostate Spirits' harden'd tool!
Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor!
The measure of thy cup is full

"Be chas'd for ever through the wood;
For ever roam the affrighted wild;
And let thy fate instruct the proud,
God's meanest creature is his child."

'Twas hush'd: One flash, of sombre glare,
With yellow ting'd the forests brown;
Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair,
And horror chill'd each nerve and bone.

Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill;
A rising wind began to sing;

And louder, louder, louder still,

Brought storm and tempest on its wing.

Earth heard the call;- her entrails rend;
From yawning rifts, with many a yell,
Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend
The misbegotten dogs of hell.

What ghastly Huntsman next arose,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell;

His eye like midnight lightning glows,
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.

The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn,
With many a shriek of helpless woe;
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn,
And, “Hark away, and holla, ho!”

With wild despair's reverted eye,

Close, close behind, he marks the throng,
With bloody fangs, and eager cry;
In frantic fear he scours along.-

Still, still shall last the dreadful chase,
Till time itself shall have an end:
By day, they scour earth's cavern'd space,
At midnight's witching hour, ascend.
This is the horn, the hound, and horse,
That oft the lated peasant hears;
Appall'd, he signs the frequent cross,
When the wild din invades his ears.

The wakeful priest oft drops a tear
For human pride, for human woe,
When at his midnight mass, he hears
The infernal cry of, “Holla, ho!"

WAR SONG.

OF THE

ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS,

Written auring the apprehension of an invasion

To horse! to horse! the standard flies,

The bugles sound the call;

The Gallic navy stems the seas,

The voice of Battle's on the breeze,

Arouse ye, one and all!

From high Dunedin's tow'rs we come,

A band of brothers true;

Our casques the leopard's spoils surround,

With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd;

We boast the red and blue,

WAR SONG.

Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown,
Dull Holland's tardy train;
Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,
And, foaming, gnaw the chain;

O! had they mark'd th' avenging call
Their brethren's murder gave,
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown,
Nor patriot valour, desp'rate grown,
Sought freedom in the grave!

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,
In Freedom's temple born,

Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,
To hail a master in our isle,

Or brook a victor's scorn?

No! though destruction o'er the land
Come pouring as a flood,

The sun, that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our såbres' deadly sway,
And set that night in blood.

For gold let Gallia's legions fight,
Or plunder's bloody gain;

Unbrib'd, unbought, our swords we draw,

To guard our King, to fence our Law,

Nor shall their edge be vain.

If ever breath of British gale
Shall fan the tri-colour,

Or footstep of invader rude,

With rapine foul, and red with blood,

Pollute our happy shore,→→

Then farewell home! and farewell friends!
Adieu each tender tie!

Resolv'd, we mingle in the tide,

Where charging squadrons furious ride,

To conquer, or to die.

To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam;
High sounds our bugle call;
Combin❜d by honour's sacred tie,
Our word is, Laws and Liberty!
March forward, one and all

THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE

[The Welch, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful in repelling the invaders; and the following verses are sup posed to celebrate a defeat of Clare, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of Neville, Baron of Chepstow, LordsMarchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan: Caer phili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle.

AIR-The War-song of the Men of Glamorgan.

I.

RED glows the forge inStriguil's bounds,
And hammers din, and anvil sounds,
And armourers, with iron toil,

Barb many a steed for battle's broil.

Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
Around the courser's thund'ring heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!

II.

From Chepstow's tow'rs, ere dawn of morn,
Was heard afar the bugle horn;

And forth, in banded pomp and pride,

Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.

They swore, their banners broad should gleam,

In crimson light, on Rymny's stream;

They vow'd, Caerphili's sod should feel
The Norman charger's spurning heel.

III.

And sooth they swore-the sun arose,
And Rymny's wave with crimson glows;
For Clare's red banner, floating wide,
Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide!
And sooth they vow'd-the trampled green
Show'd where hot Neville's charge had been:
In every sable hoof-tramp stood

A Norman horseman's curdling blood!