THE LAST HUNT.

  Oh, it’s twenty gallant gentlemen
    Rode out to hunt the deer,
  With mirth upon the silver horn
    And gleam upon the spear;
  They galloped through the meadow-grass,
    They sought the forest’s gloom,
  And loudest rang Sir Morven’s laugh,
    And lightest tost his plume. 
      There’s no delight by day or night
        Like hunting in the morn;
      So busk ye, gallant gentlemen,
        And sound the silver horn!

  They rode into the dark greenwood
    By ferny dell and glade,
  And now and then upon their cloaks
    The yellow sunshine played;
  They heard the timid forest-birds
    Break off amid their glee,
  They saw the startled leveret,
    But not a stag did see. 
      Wind, wind the horn, on summer morn! 
        Though ne’er a buck appear,
      There’s health for horse and gentleman
        A-hunting of the deer!

  They panted up Ben Lomond’s side
    Where thick the leafage grew,
  And when they bent the branches back
    The sunbeams darted through;
  Sir Morven in his saddle turned,
    And to his comrades spake,
  “Now quiet! we shall find a stag
    Beside the Brownies’ Lake. 
      Then sound not on the bugle-horn,
        Bend bush and do not break,
      Lest ye should start the timid hart
        A-drinking at the lake.”

  Now they have reached the Brownies’ Lake,—­
    A blue eye in the wood,—­
  And on its brink a moment’s space
    All motionless they stood;
  When, suddenly, the silence broke
    With fifty bowstrings’ twang,
  And hurtling through the drowsy air
    Full fifty arrows sang. 
      Ah, better for those gentlemen,
        Than horn and slender spear,
      Were morion and buckler true,
        A-hunting of the deer.

  Not one of that brave company
    Shall hunt the deer again;
  Some fell beside the Brownies’ Pool,
    Some dropt in dell or glen;
  An arrow pierced Sir Morven’s breast,
    His horse plunged in the lake,
  And swimming to the farther bank
    He left a bloody wake. 
      Ah, what avails the silver horn,
        And what the slender spear? 
      There’s other quarry in the wood
        Beside the fallow deer!

  O’er ridge and hollow sped the horse
    Besprent with blood and foam,
  Nor slackened pace until at eve
    He brought his master home. 
  How tenderly the Lady Ruth
    The cruel dart withdrew! 
  “False Tirrell shot the bolt,” she said,
    “That my Sir Morven slew!”
      Deep in the forest lurks the foe,
        While gayly shines the morn: 
      Hang up the broken spear, and blow
        A dirge upon the horn.

WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER (Paul Hermes).