The Hunt in Literature 31 



had fallen. Dunstan, whose nature It was to care 

 more for immediate annoyances than for remote 

 consequences, no sooner recovered his legs, and saw 

 that it was all over with Wildfire, than he felt a 

 satisfaction at the absence of witnesses to a position 

 which no swaggering could make enviable. 



George Eliot. 



Through thick Arcadian Woods ^> >^> 



THROUGH thick Arcadian woods a hunter 

 went, 

 Following the beasts up, on a fresh spring day j 

 But since his horn-tipped bow but seldom bent. 

 Now at the noontide nought had happed to slay. 

 Within a vale he called his hounds away, 

 Harkening the echoes of his lone voice cling 

 About the clifFs and through the beech-trees ring. 



But when they ended, still awhile he stood. 

 And but the sweet familiar thrush could hear, 

 And all the day-long noises of the wood, 

 And o'er the dry leaves of the vanished year 

 His hounds* feet pattering as they drew anear. 

 And heavy breathing from their heads low hung, 

 To see the mighty cornel bow unstrung. 



Then smiling did he turn to leave the place. 



But with his first step some new fleeting thought 



A shadow cast across his sunburnt face ; 



I think the golden net that April brought 



From some warm world his wavering soul had 



caught ; 

 For, sunk in vague sweet longings, did he go 

 Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps and slow. 



William Morris. 



