OME, let us away! The morn is bright; II. Come, let us away! The wars are done; 84 HAWKING SONG. His dinted shield on the wall is hung, And his deeds in the minstrel's lays are sung! III. 'Tis a time of peace, and the land is free; And the hermit sits in the forest shade, No more of the coming foe afraid. IV. Then let us away! 'Tis many a year Since thou and I rode hawking here; Since we passed, in the pride of our youthful will, As it liked us best, over holt or hill. V. Oh, I long to visit the merlin's glen, And to ride by the druid-stone again; And to see our birds, from the mountain's crown, Bring, as of yore, their quarry down! VI. Thou know'st the well in the forest old, VII. We have seen the clouds part east and west, THOUSAND vassals mustered round, With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound; Guard every pass with crossbow bent; And through the brake the rangers stalk, And falconers hold the ready hawk ; And foresters in green-wood trim, Lead in the leash the gaze-hounds grim, 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 greyhounds strain ; While all the rocking hills reply To hoof clang, hound, and hunter's cry, SCOTT. 85 86 LOVE HAWKING. LOVE HAWKING. HO! a ho! Love's horn doth blow, And he will out a-hawking go. His shafts are light as beauty's sighs, The swan-winged horses of the skies, A ho! a ho! Love's horn doth blow, And he will out a-hawking go. The sparrows flutter round his wrist, The feathery thieves that Venus kissed The linnets seek the airy list; And swallows too, small pets of spring, Beat back the gale with swifter wing, And dart and wheel along. A ho! a ho! Love's horn doth blow, And he will out a-hawking go. Now woe to every gnat that skips His felon blood is shed; ROW gallantly thy soaring wing As if its home were in the sky. Terror-like some portentous star. With rustling wing, and fearful wail, Up to that dazzling height strain after thee in vain. II. Yet now, as o'er the city's walls In sorrowing mood I bend, Thy sight no piteous thought recalls, Thou seem'st an old, remembered friend. S7 |