POEMS OLD AND NEW
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown ?
— This chase it looks not like an earthly chase ;
Sir Walter and the hart are left alone.
The poor hart toils along the mountain-side ;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died ;
but now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn ;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy :	10
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat ;
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned ;
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.
Upon his side the hart was lying stretched :
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,
Ajid with the last deep groan his breath had fetched
The waters of the spring were trembling still.	20
now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Never had living man such joyful lot !)
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west
gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.
climbing up the hill — (it was at least
Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now
Such sight was never seen by human eyes :	30
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow
Down to the very fountain where he lies.
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