Sports and Pastimes

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 Sports 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.)

and Pastimes

The Blood Horse

Gamarra is a dainty steed,

Strong, black, and of a noble 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,

Sports

and Pastimes

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 pass the shores of solemn pine,
Where wolves and black bears prowl,

And away to the rocky isles of mist
To rouse the northern fowl.

Sports

and Pastimes

Sports and

Pastimes

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

The Needle

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.