Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes; A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, The Knight halloo'd, he chid and cheer'd them on With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern; But breath and eye-sight fail, and, one by one, The dogs are stretch'd among the mountain fern. Where is the throng, the tumult of the chace? The bugles that so joyfully were blown? -This race it looks not like an earthly race; Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. The poor Hart toils along the mountain side; Dismounting then, he lean'd against a thorn; He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy : He neither smack'd his whip, nor blew his horn, But gaz'd upon the spoil with silent joy. Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd, Stood his dumb partner in this glorious act; Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd, And foaming like a mountain cataract. Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd: His nose half-touch'd a spring beneath a hill, And with the last deep groan his breath had fetch'd 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 walk'd all round, north, south and west, And gaz'd, and gaz'd upon that darling place. And turning up the hill, it was at least Nine roods of sheer ascent, Sir Walter found Three several marks which with his hoofs the beast Had left imprinted on the verdant ground. Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, A cunning Artist will I have to frame A bason for that fountain in the dell ; And, gallant brute! to make thy praises known, And in the summer-time when days are long, Till the foundations of the mountains fail - The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, And them who dwell among the woods of Ure." Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring. And soon the Knight perform'd what he had said, The fame whereof through many a land did ring. Ere thrice the moon into her port had steer'd, of stone receiv'd the living well; A cup Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd, And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall |