Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Springlets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming, And foresters have busy been To track the buck in thicket green; Now we come to chant our lay "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the greenwood haste away; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot and tall of size; We can show the marks he made When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; You shall see him brought to bay; "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Louder, louder chant the lay Waken, lords and ladies gay!

Tell them youth and mirth and glee Run a course as well as we; Time, stern huntsman! who can balk, Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk; Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

_The Hunter's Song_

Rise! Sleep no more! 'Tis a n.o.ble morn!

The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn, And the frost shrinks back like a beaten hound, Under the steaming, steaming ground.

Behold where the billowy clouds flow by, And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!

Our horses are ready and steady,--So, ho!

I'm gone like a dart from the Tartar's bow.

_Hark, hark!--who calleth the maiden Morn_ _From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?_ _The horn--the horn!_ _The merry sweet ring of the hunter's horn!_

Now through the copse where the fox is found And over the stream at a mighty bound, And over the high lands and over the low, O'er furrows, o'er meadows the hunters go!

Away! as the hawk flies full at his prey So flieth the hunter,--away, away!

From the burst at the corn till set of sun, When the red fox dies, and the day is done!

_Hark, hark!--What sound on the wind is borne?_ _'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn._ _The horn,--the horn!_ _The merry bold voice of the hunter's horn!_

Sound, sound the horn! To the hunter good What's the gully deep, or the roaring flood?

Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds, At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.

O what delight can a mortal lack When he once is firm on his horse's back, With his stirrups short and his snaffle strong, And the blast of the horn for his morning song!

_Hark, hark! Now home! and dream till morn_ _Of the bold sweet sound of the hunter's horn!_ _The horn, the horn!_ _Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn!_

BARRY CORNWALL.

(Bryan Waller Procter.)

_The Blood Horse_

Gamarra is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a n.o.ble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within!

His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light.

Look--how 'round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float; Sinewy strength is in his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins; Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man.

He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire,-- Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself!

He, who hath no peer, was born, Here, upon a red March morn; But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, And the last of that great line Trod like one of a race divine!

And yet,--he was but friend to one, Who fed him at the set of sun, By some lone fountain fringed with green: With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day),-- And died untamed upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands!

BARRY CORNWALL.

(Bryan Waller Procter.)

_The Northern Seas_

Up! up! let us a voyage take; Why sit we here at ease?

Find us a vessel tight and snug, Bound for the Northern Seas.

I long to see the Northern Lights, With their rushing splendors, fly, Like living things, with flaming wings, Wide o'er the wondrous sky.

I long to see those icebergs vast, With heads all crowned with snow; Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep, Two hundred fathoms low.

I long to hear the thundering crash Of their terrific fall; And the echoes from a thousand cliffs, Like lonely voices call.

There shall we see the fierce white bear, The sleepy seals aground, And the spouting whales that to and fro Sail with a dreary sound.

There may we tread on depths of ice, That the hairy mammoth hide; Perfect as when, in times of old, The mighty creature died.

And while the unsetting sun shines on Through the still heaven's deep blue, We'll traverse the azure waves, the herds Of the dread sea-horse to view.

We'll pa.s.s the sh.o.r.es of solemn pine, Where wolves and black bears prowl, And away to the rocky isles of mist To rouse the northern fowl.

Up there shall start ten thousand wings, With a rushing, whistling din; Up shall the auk and fulmar start,-- All but the fat penguin.

And there, in the wastes of the silent sky, With the silent earth below, We shall see far off to his lonely rock The lonely eagle go.

Then softly, softly will we tread By island streams, to see Where the pelican of the silent North Sits there all silently.

WILLIAM HOWITT.

_The Needle_

The gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling In waltz or cotillion, at whist or quadrille; And seek admiration by vauntingly telling Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill; But give me the fair one, in country or city, Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, While plying the needle with exquisite art: The bright little needle--the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art.

If Love have a potent, a magical token, A talisman, ever resistless and true-- A charm that is never evaded or broken, A witchery certain the heart to subdue-- 'T is this--and his armory never has furnished So keen and unerring, or polished a dart; Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnished, And, oh! it is certain of touching the heart: The bright little needle--the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art.

Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all; You never, whate'er be your fortune or station, Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball, As gayly convened at a work-covered table, Each cheerfully active and playing her part, Beguiling the task with a song or a fable, And plying the needle with exquisite art: The bright little needle--the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art.

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

INTERLEAVES

_A Garden of Girls_

Enter a procession of charming girls; wee ones like Nikolina and Jessie, others, like Peggy, just entering their teens. Some are so saintly we can almost see the halos above their lovely heads--like Mrs. Browning's human angel in the first poem, or like Shakespeare's Silvia, who excels each mortal thing; others are just happy children, like Little Bell.

The poets, as you will see, have delighted to paint the beauties of this rosebud garden. There is sweet Phyllis, the little dairymaid, whose hand seemed milk, in milk it was so white; Annie Laurie, with her brow like the snowdrift and her voice like wind in summer sighing; merry Margaret, like midsummer flower; but you will note that in all of them sunny hair and dewy eyes are not where the beauty lies. "Love deep and kind" leaves good gifts behind, with Bell and with Mally, too, who is rare and fair and every way complete, and who is also modest and discreet. On the other hand, Burns does not describe Nannie by so much as a single word, but it is easy to conjure up her picture, so eloquently he paints the dreariness of the world "when Nannie's awa'."