The Poetry of Hunting 147 



Little I recked of matin bell, 



But drowned its toll with my clanging horn : 

 And the only beads I loved to tell 



Were the beads of dew on the spangled thorn. 



An archer keen I was withal, 



As ever did lean on greenwood tree ; 

 And could make the fleetest roebuck fall, 

 A good three hundred yards from me. 

 Though changeful time, with hand severe. 



Has made me now these joys forego, 

 Yet my heart bounds whene'er I hear 

 Yoicks ! hark away ! and tally-ho ! 



Thomas Love Peacock. 



A Stag Hunt '^> ^^ < 



THE stag at eve had drunk his fill. 

 Where danced the moon on Monan's rill, 

 And deep his midnight lair had made 

 In lone Glenartney's hazel shade ; 

 But, when the sun his beacon red 

 Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head. 

 The deep-mouthed bloodhounds' heavy bay 

 Resounded up the rocky way, 

 And faint, from farther distance borne. 

 Were heard the clanging hoof and horn. 



The antler'd monarch of the waste 

 Sprang from his heathery couch in haste ; 

 But, ere his fleet career he took, 

 The dewdrops from his flanks he shook ; 

 Like crested leader proud and high, 

 Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky ; 

 A moment gazed adown the dale, 

 A moment snuffed the tainted gale, 



