Spread his broad nostril to the wind, Listed before, aside, behind, Then couch'd him down beside the hind, And quaked among the mountain fern, To hear that sound, so dull and stern. END OF CANTO SECOND. TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, Esq. Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. LIKE April morning clouds, that pass With varying shadow, o'er the grass, And imitate, on field and furrow, Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow; Like streamlet of the mountain north, Now in a torrent racing forth, Now winding slow its silver train, And almost slumbering on the plain; Like breezes of the autumn day, Whose voice inconstant dies away, |
