VI.

VI.

'T were long to tell what steeds gave o'er, As swept the hunt through Cambusmore; What reins were tightened in despair, When rose Benledi's ridge in air; Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath, Who shunned 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.

VII.

Alone, but with unbated zeal, 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. Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, 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, 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, O'er stock and rock their race they take.