“Another horse!”—­That shout the vassal heard,
        And saddled his best steed, a comely gray;
      Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
        Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

      Joy sparkled in the prancing courser’s eyes: 
        The horse and horseman are a happy pair;
      But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
        There is a doleful silence in the air.

      A rout this morning left Sir Walter’s hall,
        That as they galloped made the echoes roar;
      But horse and man are vanished, one and all;
        Such race, I think, was never seen before.

      Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
        Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain: 
      Brach, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
        Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

      The knight hallooed, he chid and cheered them on
        With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
      But breath and eye-sight fail; and, one by one,
        The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.

      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: 
      He neither smacked 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 act;
      Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned;
        And foaming like a mountain cataract.

      Upon his side the hart was lying stretched: 
        His nose half-touched a spring beneath a hill,
      And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched
        The waters of the spring were trembling still.

      And now, too happy for repose or rest,
        (Was never man in such a joyful case!)
      Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,
        And gazed, and gazed upon that darling place.

      And climbing up the hill—­(it was at least
        Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found,
      Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast
        Had left imprinted on the verdant ground.

      Sir Walter wiped his face and cried, “Till now
        Such sight was never seen by living eyes: 
      Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
        Down to the very fountain where he lies.

      I’ll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
        And a small arbour, made for rural joy;
      ’Twill be the traveller’s shed, the pilgrim’s cot,
        A place of love for damsels that are coy.