« AnteriorContinuar »
“Another horse!”—That shout the vassal
heard And saddled his best steed, a comely grey ; 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,
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their
kind, Follow, and
weary mountain strain.
The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings
stern ; But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by
The dogs are stretched among the mountain
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race? The bugles that so joyfully were blown? - This chase, it looks not like an earthly The poor Hart toils along the mountain
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Dismounting, then, he leaned against a
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy: He neither cracked 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 Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned ; And white with foam as if with cleaving
Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched: His nostril touched a spring beneath a
hill, And with the last deep groan his breath
had fetched The waters of the spring were trembling
And now, too happy for
too happy for repose or rest, (Never had living man such joyful lot!) Sir Walter walked all round, north, south,
And gazed and gazed upon that darling And climbing up the hill—(it was at least Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found Three several hoof-marks which the hunted
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, “ Till
Such sight was never seen by human 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.