Our Anniversary. 699 



" And is not the following very picturesque ? 



All living things that own the touch of sleep, 



Are beekon'd as the wasting moments wear, 

 Till one by one, in valley, or from steep, 

 Unto their several homes, they and their shadows creep. 



" But I will send you a short paper about The Solitary, for though I 

 write verses myself, I thank God that I am not jealous, and above all 

 things I love to write a young poet into reputation." 



" By the bye, Marmaduke," said Weathercock, pulling a paper from 

 his waistcoat, " I have a hunting song here, which, I think, deserves a place 

 in your magazine shall I read it to you ?" 

 " Oh, certainly." 



TURNING OUT. 



There's a gathering of men, by Runny Glen, 



The music of hound and horn, 

 And the gallant cry of a hundred men 



On the merry wind of morn. 

 There's a trampling of feet, a shaking of reins, 



As the cheering sound rings past : 

 The wild breeze plays with the horses' manes, 



The forelock with the blast. 

 Each heart is light, each eye is bright, 



Not a shade of grief or care ; 

 Voices and songs but ere fall of night, 



Not a whisper will be there. 

 Playfully soft is the filly's bound, 



Her rider a lovely girl, 

 She looks around at each gleeful sound 



Of the breeze that fans her curl ; 

 Her spirit is gladsome and fancy-free, r 



Her journey of life is new 

 She thinks not what earth in its winter may be, 



Whowalkethinitsdew! 

 Away ! Away ! the cry is breaking 



From meadow and wood and tree ; 

 Sweetest bird, of the morning's waking, 



My heart says away to thee ! 

 They are pouring down the green hill's side. 



With a sound like far-off thunder, 

 Or an army with banners floating wide, 



Beating the fresh grass under. 

 The branches quiver the hedges beside, 



As the living whirlwinds go ; 

 Not a word not a look not a breath, as they ride 



On their foaming steeds Tally-ho ! Tally-ho ! 

 (Here, ice regret to say, four lines are wanting.) 

 They are out of sight and I stand alone, 



With no voice of love to cheer me ; 

 The huntsman's echoing cry hath flown, 



And no human form is near me. 

 Thus in the joy of our boyhood day 



For the glory of life we run, 

 And we roam a long and weary way, 



And we deem the guerdon won ; 

 But we gaze around, and they who started 



Laughing aloud in hope and pride 

 Oh, where are the merry band departed? 



They are vanished from our side. 



