THE DEAD HUNTER 



XIX 



This timber the storms of the ocean shall weather, 

 And sail o'er the waves as we sail'd o'er the heather ; 

 Each plant of the forest, when launch'd from the 



stocks, 

 May it run down a foeman as we do a Fox. 



The Dead Hunter 



HIS sire from the desert, his dam from the north, 

 The pride of my stable stept gallantly forth. 

 One slip in his stride as the scurry he led, 

 And my steed, ere his rivals o'ertook him, lay dead. 



II 



Poor steed ! shall thy limbs on the hunting field 



lie. 

 That his beak in thy carcase the raven may dye 1 

 Is it thine the sad doom of thy race to fulfil, 

 Thy flesh to the cauldron, thy bones to the mill ? 



in 



Ah ! no. — I beheld thee a foal yet unshod, 



Now race round the paddock, now roll on the sod. 



Where first thy young hoof the green herbage 



impress'd. 

 There, the shoes on thy feet, will I lay thee to 



rest ! 



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