CANTO FIRST THE CHASE

Harp of the North! that moldering long hast hung On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring,note And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung, Till envious ivy did around thee cling, 5 Muffling with verdant ringlet every string— O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep? Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring, Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep? 10 Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,note Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, Aroused the fearful, or subdued the proud. At each according pause, was heard aloud 15 Thine ardent symphony sublime and high! Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed; For still the burden of thy minstrelsy Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's matchless eye. O wake once more! how rude soe'er the hand 20 That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray; O wake once more! though scarce my skill command Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay; Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away, And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, 25 Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway, The wizard note has not been touched in vain. Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!

The stag at eve had drunk his fill, Where danced the moon on Monan's rill,note 30 And deep his midnight lair had made In lone Glenartney's hazel shade;note But, when the sun his beacon red Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head,note The deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay 35 Resounded up the rocky way, And faint, from farther distance borne, Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.

As Chief, who hears his warder call "To arms! the foemen storm the wall," 40 The antlered monarch of the waste Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. But ere his fleet career he took, The dew-drops from his flanks he shook; Like crested leader proud and high, 45 Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky; A moment gazed adown the dale, A moment snuffed the tainted gale, A moment listened to the cry, That thickened as the chase drew nigh; 50 Then, as the headmost foes appeared, With one brave bound the copse he cleared, And, stretching forward free and far, Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.note

Yelled on the view the opening pack; 55 Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back; To many a mingled sound at once The awakened mountain gave response. A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, Clattered a hundred steeds along, 60 Their peal the merry horns rung out, A hundred voices joined the shout; With hark and whoop and wild halloo, No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. Far from the tumult fled the roe; 65 Close in her covert cowered the doe; The falcon, from her cairn on high, Cast on the rout a wondering eye, Till far beyond her piercing ken The hurricane had swept the glen. 70 Faint, and more faint, its failing din Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn,note And silence settled, wide and still, On the lone wood and mighty hill.

Less loud the sounds of silvan war 75 Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var, And roused the cavern, where, 'tis told, A giant made his den of old; For ere that steep ascent was won, High in his pathway hung the sun, 80 And many a gallant, stayed perforce, Was fain to breathe his faltering horse, And of the trackers of the deer, Scarce half the lessening pack was near; So shrewdly on the mountain side, 85 Had the bold burst their mettle tried.

The noble stag was pausing now Upon the mountain's southern brow, Where broad extended, far beneath, The varied realms of fair Menteith.note 90 With anxious eye he wandered o'er Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, And pondered refuge from his toil, By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.note But nearer was the copsewood grey, 95 That waved and wept on Loch-Achray,note And mingled with the pine-trees blue On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.note Fresh vigor with the hope returned, With flying foot the heath he spurned, 100 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 Cambusmore;note What reins were tightened in despair, 105 When rose Benledi's ridge in air;note Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath,note Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith— For twice that day, from shore to shore, The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. 110 Few were the stragglers, following far, That reached the lake of Vennachar; And when the Brigg of Turk was won,note The headmost horseman rode alone.

Alone, but with unbated zeal, 115 That horseman plied the scourge and steel; For jaded now, and spent with toil, Embossed with foam, and dark with soil, While every gasp with sobs he drew, The laboring stag strained full in view. 120 Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed,note Unmatched 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, 125 Vindictive, toiled the bloodhounds stanch; Nor nearer might the dogs attain, Nor farther might the quarry strain. Thus up the margin of the lake, Between the precipice and brake, 130 O'er stock and rock their race they take.

The Hunter marked that mountain high, The lone lake's western boundary, And deemed the stag must turn to bay, Where that huge rampart barred the way; 135 Already glorying in the prize, Measured his antlers with his eyes; For the death-wound and the death-halloo, Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew—note But thundering as he came prepared, 140 With ready arm and weapon bared, The wily quarry shunned the shock, And turned him from the opposing rock; Then, dashing down a darksome glen, Soon lost to hound and Hunter's ken, 145 In the deep Trossachs' wildest nooknote His solitary refuge took. There, while close couched, the thicket shed Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head, He heard the baffled dogs in vain 150 Rave through the hollow pass amain, Chiding the rocks that yelled again.

Close on the hounds the Hunter came, To cheer them on the vanished game; But, stumbling in the rugged dell, 155 The gallant horse exhausted fell. The impatient rider strove in vain To rouse him with the spur and rein, For the good steed, his labors o'er, Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more; 160 Then, touched with pity and remorse, He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. "I little thought, when first thy rein I slacked upon the banks of Seine, That Highland eagle e'er should feed 165 On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed! Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day,note That costs thy life, my gallant gray!"

Then through the dell his horn resounds, From vain pursuit to call the hounds. 170 Back limped, with slow and crippled pace, The sulky leaders of the chase; Close to their master's side they pressed, With drooping tail and humbled crest; But still the dingle's hollow throat 175 Prolonged the swelling bugle-note. The owlets started from their dream, The eagles answered with their scream, Round and around the sounds were cast,note Till echo seemed an answering blast; 180 And on the Hunter hied his way, To join some comrades of the day; Yet often paused, so strange the road, So wondrous were the scenes it showed.

The western waves of ebbing day 185 Rolled o'er the glen their level way; Each purple peak, each flinty spire, Was bathed in floods of living fire. But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below, 190 Where twined the path in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid, Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; Round many an insulated mass, 195 The native bulwarks of the pass, Huge as the tower which builders vainnote Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. The rocky summits, split and rent, Formed turret, dome, or battlement, 200 Or seemed fantastically set With cupola or minaret, Wild crests as pagod ever decked, Or mosque of Eastern architect. Nor were these earth-born castles bare, 205 Nor lacked they many a banner fair; For, from their shivered brows displayed, Far o'er the unfathomable glade, All twinkling with the dewdrops sheen,note The brier-rose fell in streamers green, 210 And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes, Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs.

Boon nature scattered, free and wild, Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. Here eglantine embalmed the air, 215 Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower; Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side, Emblems of punishment and pride, 220 Grouped their dark hues with every stain The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath, Grey birch and aspen wept beneath; Aloft, the ash and warrior oak 225 Cast anchor in the rifted rock; And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung His shattered trunk, and frequent flung,note Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high, His bows athwart the narrowed sky. 230 Highest of all, where white peaks glanced, Where glist'ning streamers waved and danced, The wanderer's eye could barely view The summer heaven's delicious blue; So wondrous wild, the whole might seem 235 The scenery of a fairy dream.

Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep A narrow inlet, still and deep, Affording scarce such breadth of brim As served the wild duck's brood to swim. 240 Lost for a space, through thickets veering, But broader when again appearing, Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face Could on the dark-blue mirror trace; And farther as the Hunter strayed, 245 Still broader sweep its channels made. The shaggy mounds no longer stood, Emerging from entangled wood, But, wave-encircled, seemed to float, Like castle girdled with its moat; 250 Yet broader floods extending still Divide them from their parent hill, Till each, retiring, claims to be An islet in an inland sea.

And now, to issue from the glen, 255 No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, Unless he climb, with footing nice,note A far projecting precipice. The broom's tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid; 260 And thus an airy point he won, Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnished sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled, In all her length far winding lay, 265 With promontory, creek, and bay, And island that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light, And mountains, that like giants stand, To sentinel enchanted land. 270 High on the south, huge Benvenue Down on the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world; A wildering forest feathered o'er 275 His ruined sides and summit hoar, While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.

From the steep promontory gazed The stranger, raptured and amazed, 280 And, "What a scene were here," he cried, "For princely pomp, or churchman's pride! On this bold brow, a lordly tower; In that soft vale, a lady's bower; On yonder meadow, far away, 285 The turrets of a cloister gray; How blithely might the bugle-horn Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn! How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute Chime, when the groves were still and mute! 290 And when the midnight moon should lave Her forehead in the silver wave, How solemn on the ear would come The holy matin's distant hum, While the deep peal's commanding tone 295 Should wake, in yonder islet lone, A sainted hermit from his cell, To drop a bead with every knell— And bugle, lute, and bell, and all, Should each bewildered stranger call 300 To friendly feast, and lighted hall.

"Blithe were it then to wander here! But now—beshrew yon nimble deer— Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, The copse must give my evening fare; 305 Some mossy bank my couch must be, Some rustling oak my canopy. Yet pass we that; the war and chase Give little choice of resting-place— A summer night, in greenwood spent, 310 Were but tomorrow's merriment: But hosts may in these wilds abound, Such as are better missed than found; To meet with Highland plunderers here,note Were worse than loss of steed or deer. 315 I am alone; my bugle-strain May call some straggler of the train; Or, fall the worst that may betide, Ere now this falchion has been tried."

But scarce again his horn he wound, 320 When lo! forth starting at the sound, From underneath an aged oak, That slanted from the islet rock, A damsel guider of its way, A little skiff shot to the bay, 325 That round the promontory steep Led its deep line in graceful sweep, Eddying, in almost viewless wave, The weeping willow-twig to lave, And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, 330 The beach of pebbles bright as snow. The boat had touched the silver strand, Just as the Hunter left his stand, And stood concealed amid the brake, To view this Lady of the Lake. 335 The maiden paused, as if again She thought to catch the distant strain. With head upraised, and look intent, And eye and ear attentive bent, And locks flung back, and lips apart, 340 Like monument of Grecian art, In listening mood, she seemed to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand.

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace 345 Of finer form or lovelier face! What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown— The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, 350 Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow. What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace,— A foot more light, a step more true, 355 Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; E'en the slight harebell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread. What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue— 360 Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held his breath to hear!

A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid; Her satin snood, her silken plaid,note Her golden brooch such birth betrayed. 365 And seldom was a snood amid Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, Whose glossy black to shame might bring The plumage of the raven's wing; And seldom o'er a breast so fair, 370 Mantled a plaid with modest care, And never brooch the folds combined Above a heart more good and kind. Her kindness and her worth to spy, You need but gaze on Ellen's eye; 375 Not Katrine, in her mirror blue, Gives back the shaggy banks more true, Than every free-born glance confessed The guileless movements of her breast; Whether joy danced in her dark eye, 380 Or woe or pity claimed a sigh, Or filial love was glowing there, Or meek devotion poured a prayer, Or tale of injury called forth The indignant spirit of the North. 385 One only passion unrevealed, With maiden pride the maid concealed, Yet not less purely felt the flame— Oh! need I tell that passion's name!

Impatient of the silent horn, 390 Now on the gale her voice was borne: "Father!" she cried; the rocks around Loved to prolong the gentle sound. A while she paused, no answer came— "Malcolm, was thine the blast?" the name 395 Less resolutely uttered fell, The echoes could not catch the swell. "A stranger I," the Huntsman said, Advancing from the hazel shade. The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar, 400 Pushed her light shallop from the shore, And when a space was gained between, Closer she drew her bosom's screen— So forth the startled swan would swing, So turn to prune his ruffled wing. 405 Then safe, though fluttered and amazed, She paused, and on the stranger gazed. Not his the form, nor his the eye, That youthful maidens wont to fly.

On his bold visage middle age 410 Had slightly pressed its signet sage, Yet had not quenched the open truth And fiery vehemence of youth; Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare, 415 The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, Of hasty love, or headlong ire. His limbs were cast in manly mold, For hardy sports or contest bold; And though in peaceful garb arrayed, 420 And weaponless, except his blade, His stately mien as well implied A high-born heart, a martial pride, As if a Baron's crest he wore, And sheathed in armor trod the shore. 425 Slighting the petty need he showed, He told of his benighted road; His ready speech flowed fair and free, In phrase of gentlest courtesy; Yet seemed that tone, and gesture bland, 430 Less used to sue than to command.

A while the maid the stranger eyed, And, reassured, at length replied, That Highland halls were open still To wildered wanderers of the hill. 435 "Nor think you unexpected come To yon lone isle, our desert home; Before the heath had lost the dew, This morn, a couch was pulled for you;note On yonder mountain's purple head 440 Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled,note And our broad nets have swept the mere, To furnish forth your evening cheer." "Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, Your courtesy has erred," he said; 445 "No right have I to claim, misplaced, The welcome of expected guest. A wanderer here, by fortune tost, My way, my friends, my courser lost, I ne'er before, believe me, fair, 450 Have ever drawn your mountain air, Till on this lake's romantic strand, I found a fay in fairy land!"

"I well believe," the maid replied, As her light skiff approached the side, 455 "I well believe, that ne'er before Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore; But yet, as far as yesternight, Old Allan-bane foretold your plight, A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent 460 Was on the visioned future bent.note He saw your steed, a dappled gray, Lie dead beneath the birchen way; Painted exact your form and mien, Your hunting suit of Lincoln green, 465 That tasselled horn so gaily gilt, That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, That cap with heron plumage trim, And yon two hounds so dark and grim. He bade that all should ready be, 470 To grace a guest of fair degree; But light I held his prophecy, And deemed it was my father's horn, Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne."

The stranger smiled: "Since to your home 475 A destined errant-knight I come, Announced by prophet sooth and old, Doomed, doubtless, for achievement bold, I'll lightly front each high emprise, For one kind glance of those bright eyes. 480 Permit me, first, the task to guide Your fairy frigate o'er the tide." The maid with smile suppressed and sly, The toil unwonted saw him try; For seldom sure, if e'er before, 485 His noble hand had grasped an oar. Yet with main strength his strokes he drew, And o'er the lake the shallop flew; With heads erect, and whimpering cry, The hounds behind their passage ply. 490 Nor frequent does the bright oar break The dark'ning mirror of the lake, Until the rocky isle they reach, And moor their shallop on the beach.

The stranger viewed the shore around, 495 'Twas all so close with copsewood bound, Nor track nor pathway might declare That human foot frequented there, Until the mountain-maiden showed A clambering, unsuspected road, 500 That winded through the tangled screen, And opened on a narrow green, Where weeping birch and willow round With their long fibres swept the ground. Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,note 505 Some chief had framed a rustic bower.

It was a lodge of ample size, But strange of structure and device; Of such materials as around The workman's hand had readiest found. 510 Lopped of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared, And by the hatchet rudely squared, To give the walls their destined height, The sturdy oak and ash unite; While moss and clay and leaves combined 515 To fence each crevice from the wind. The lighter pine-trees overhead, Their slender length for rafters spread, And withered heath and rushes dry Supplied a russet canopy. 520 Due westward, fronting to the green, A rural portico was seen, Aloft on native pillars borne, Of mountain fir with bark unshorn, Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine 525 The ivy and Idaean vine, The clematis, the favored flower Which boasts the name of virgin-bower, And every hardy plant could bear Loch Katrine's keen and searching air. 530 An instant in this porch she stayed And gaily to the stranger said, "On heaven and on thy lady call, And enter the enchanted hall!"

"My hope, my heaven, my trust must be, 535 My gentle guide, in following thee." He crossed the threshold—and a clang Of angry steel that instant rang. To his bold brow his spirit rushed, But soon for vain alarm he blushed, 540 When on the floor he saw displayed, Cause of the din, a naked blade Dropped from the sheath, that careless flung Upon a stag's huge antlers swung; For all around, the walls to grace, 545 Hung trophies of the fight or chase: A target there, a bugle here,note A battle-ax, a hunting spear, And broadswords, bows, and arrows store, With the tusked trophies of the boar. 550 Here grins the wolf as when he died, And there the wild-cat's brindled hide The frontlet of the elk adorns, Or mantles o'er the bison's horns; Pennons and flags defaced and stained, 555 That blackening streaks of blood retained, And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white, With otter's fur and seal's unite, In rude and uncouth tapestry all, To garnish forth the silvan hall.

560 The wondering stranger round him gazed, And next the fallen weapon raised— Few were the arms whose sinewy strength, Sufficed to stretch it forth at length. And as the brand he poised and swayed, 565 "I never knew but one," he said, "Whose stalwart arm might brook to wieldnote A blade like this in battle-field." She sighed, then smiled and took the word: "You see the guardian champion's sword; 570 As light it trembles in his hand, As in my grasp a hazel wand; My sire's tall form might grace the part Of Ferragus, or Ascabart;note But in the absent giant's hold 575 Are women now, and menials old."

The mistress of the mansion came, Mature of age, a graceful dame; Whose easy step and stately port Had well become a princely court, 580 To whom, though more than kindred knew,note Young Ellen gave a mother's due. Meet welcome to her guest she made, And every courteous rite was paid, That hospitality could claim, 585 Though all unasked his birth and name. Such then the reverence to a guest, That fellest foe might join the feast, And from his deadliest foeman's door Unquestioned turn, the banquet o'er. 590 At length his rank the stranger names, "The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James;note Lord of a barren heritage, Which his brave sires, from age to age, By their good swords had held with toil; 595 His sire had fallen in such turmoil, And he, God wot, was forced to stand Oft for his right with blade in hand. This morning, with Lord Moray's train He chased a stalwart stag in vain, 600 Outstripped his comrades, missed the deer, Lost his good steed, and wandered here."

Fain would the Knight in turn require The name and state of Ellen's sire. Well showed the elder lady's mien, 605 That courts and cities she had seen; Ellen, though more her looks displayed The simple grace of silvan maid, In speech and gesture, form and face, Showed she was come of gentle race. 610 'Twere strange in ruder rank to find Such looks, such manners, and such mind. Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave, Dame Margaret heard with silence grave; Or Ellen, innocently gay, 615 Turned all inquiry light away: "Weird women we—by dale and down We dwell, afar from tower and town. We stem the flood, we ride the blast, On wandering knights our spells we cast; 620 While viewless minstrels touch the string, 'Tis thus our charméd rimes we sing." She sung, and still a harp unseennote Filled up the symphony between.

"Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, 625 Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 630 Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 635 Morn of toil, nor night of waking. "No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon herenote Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. 640 Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the day-break from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,note Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, 645 Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping."

She paused—then, blushing, led the lay To grace the stranger of the day. 650 Her mellow notes awhile prolong The cadence of the flowing song, Till to her lips in measured frame The minstrel verse spontaneous came.

"Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, 655 While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveillé.note Sleep! the deer is in his den; Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; 660 Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen, How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye, 665 Here no bugles sound reveillé."

The hall was cleared—the stranger's bed Was there of mountain heather spread, Where oft a hundred guests had lain, And dreamed their forest sports again. 670 But vainly did the heath-flower shed Its moorland fragrance round his head; Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest The fever of his troubled breast. In broken dreams the image rose 675 Of varied perils, pains, and woes: His steed now flounders in the brake, Now sinks his barge upon the lake; Now leader of a broken host, His standard falls, his honor's lost. 680 Then—from my couch may heavenly might Chase that worst phantom of the night! Again returned the scenes of youth, Of confident undoubting truth; Again his soul he interchanged 685 With friends whose hearts were long estranged. They come, in dim procession led, The cold, the faithless, and the dead; As warm each hand, each brow as gay, As if they parted yesterday. 690 And doubt distracts him at the view— O were his senses false or true? Dreamed he of death, or broken vow, Or is it all a vision now?

At length, with Ellen in a grove 695 He seemed to walk, and speak of love; She listened with a blush and sigh, His suit was warm, his hopes were high. He sought her yielded hand to clasp, And a cold gauntlet met his grasp; 700 The phantom's sex was changed and gone, Upon its head a helmet shone; Slowly enlarged to giant size, With darkened cheek and threatening eyes, The grisly visage, stern and hoar, 705 To Ellen still a likeness bore. He woke, and, panting with affright, Recalled the vision of the night. The hearth's decaying brands were red. And deep and dusky luster shed, 710 Half showing, half concealing, all The uncouth trophies of the hall. Mid those the stranger fixed his eye, Where that huge falchion hung on high, And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng, 715 Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along. Until, the giddy whirl to cure, He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.

The wild-rose, eglantine, and broom, Wasted around their rich perfume: 720 The birch-trees swept in fragrant balm, The aspens slept beneath the calm; The silver light, with quivering glance, Played on the water's still expanse— Wild were the heart whose passion's sway 725 Could rage beneath the sober ray! He felt its calm, that warrior guest, While thus he communed with his breast: "Why is it, at each turn I trace Some memory of that exiled race? 730 Can I not mountain-maiden spy, But she must bear the Douglas eye? Can I not view a Highland brand, But it must match the Douglas hand? Can I not frame a fevered dream, 735 But still the Douglas is the theme? I'll dream no more—by manly mind Not even in sleep is will resigned. My midnight orisons said o'er, I'll turn to rest, and dream no more." 740 His midnight orisons he told, A prayer with every bead of gold, Consigned to heaven his cares and woes, And sunk in undisturbed repose, Until the heath-cock shrilly crew, 745 And morning dawned on Benvenue.