But nearer was the copsewood gray,
That waved and wept on Loch Achray,
And mingled with the pine trees blue
On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.
Fresh vigor with the hope return’d,
With flying foot the heath he spurn’d,
Held westward with unwearied race,
And left behind the panting chase.
VI.
’Twere long to tell what steeds gave o’er,