In some green tree's shade, content
But to hear the day's event.
Still the stag held on his way,
Careless through what toils it lay,
Down deep in the tangled dell,
Or o'er the steep rock’s pinnacle;
Stanch the steed, and bold the knight,
That would follow such a flight.
Of the morning's gallant train
Few are those who now remain.
Wearily the brave stag drew
His deep breath, as on he flew;
Heavily his glazed eye
Seems to seek somewhere to die;
All his failing strength is spent—
Now to gain one steep ascent!
Up he toils—the height is won—
'Tis the sea he looks upon.
Yet upon the breeze are borne
Coming sounds of shout and horn:
The hunters gain the rock's steep crest—
Starts he from his moment's rest,
Proudly shakes his antler'd head,
As though his defiance said,
"Come, but your triumph shall be vain!"—
The proud stag plunges in the main,
Seeks and finds beneath the wave
Safety, freedom, and a grave.L. E. L.
