Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Forget Me Not, 1827/The Stag

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For works with similar titles, see The Stag.



R. Hills. del. E. Finden sculpt.

THE STAG.



THE STAG.

It is morning, and the sky,
Like a royal canopy,
Burns with crimson and with gold;
And from out his cloudy hold
Joyfully breaks forth the sun,
While each thing he looks upon
Seems bright as if only born
For that first glad hour of morn.

What sweet sound then pass'd along?
'Twas the skylark's earliest song.
What soft breath is floating by?
The wild rose's waking sigh,
Breathing odours, as the gale
Shakes away her dewy veil.

There are other sights than these,
Other sounds are on the breeze:
Hearken to the baying hound,
Hearken to the bugles sound;
Horse-tramp, shout, upon the ear,
Tell the hunter-band are near.
Sweep they now across the plain—
Sooth it is a gallant train:
Many a high-born dame is there;
Dance their rich curls on the air,
Catching many a golden hue,
Catching many a pearl of dew;

Flush the colours on their cheek,
Lovelier than the morning's break;
Scour the young knights far and wide,
As they would to battle ride,
Finding, gallant chase, in thee
Somewhat of war's mimickry.

Hark! the hunters' shouts declare
They have found the red deer's lair;
Rising from his fragrant sleep,
Where a thousand wild flowers creep,
With one sudden desperate spring
Rushes forth the forest-king,
Like the lightning from the sky,
Like the wind, when winds are high.
Far, ere yet the train were near,
Dash'd away the noble deer,
As rejoicing in the speed
Which might mock the Arab steed.
As he pass’d the forest green,
Well his pathway might he seen;
Many a heavy oaken bough
Bent before his antler'd brow;
Shout and horn rung through the wood—
Paused he not beside the flood;
Foam and flake shone on its blue,
As the gallant stag, dash'd through.
Long or ever midday came,
Wearied stopt each lovely dame,

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.