68 Bird Day Book 



And ponder'd refuge from his toil, 

 By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. 

 But nearer was the copsewood gray, 

 That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, 

 And mingled w T ith the pine-trees blue 

 On the bold cliffs of Benvenue. 

 Fresh vigor with the hope return'd, 

 With flying foot the heath he spurn'd, 

 Held westward with unwearied race, 

 And left behind the panting chase. 



'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er, 

 As swept the hunt through Cambus-more; 

 What reins were tighen'd in despair, 

 When rose Benledi's ridge in air; 

 Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath, 

 Who shunnM to stem the flooded Teith — 

 For twice that day, from shore to shore, 

 The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. 

 Few were the stragglers, following far, 

 That reached the lake of Vennachar; 

 And when the Brigg of Turk was won, 

 The headmost horseman rode alone. 



Alone, but with unabated zeal, 



That horseman plied the scourge and steel; 



For jaded now, and spent with toil, 



Emboss'd with foam, and dark with soil, 



While every gasp with sobs he drew, 



The laboring stag strain'd full in view. 



Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, 



Unmatch'd for courage, breath and speed, 



Fast on his flying traces came, 



And all but won that desperate game ; 



For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch 



Vindictive toil'd the bloodhounds stanch; 



Nor never might the dogs attain, 



For farther might the quarry strain, 



Thus up the margin of the lake, 



Between the precipice and brake, 



O'er stock and rock, their race they take. 



