A FOREST SCENE 237 



Some noble bucks at gaze stood by, 



While two or three lay down ; 

 And in the midst of them I spy 



A deer to call my own ! 

 His head away, his haunch to me, 



No portion to the rifle free. 

 What sound is that ? a low, lone cry, 



In plaint and pathos meek, 

 O'er this sweet scene seems floating by ; 

 It nears the lawn, and comes more nigh, 



And nearer seems more weak : 

 ' Mah ! ' ' Mi ! ' the little voice it says ; 

 It is a fawn, and hither strays ; 



It stands upon the green : 

 Oh, what a wasted thing of hair ! 

 It slender limbs will scarcely bear 



The summer breath, I ween. 

 The fawn that look'd so sleek and kind 



Would not with mother stay, 

 But, bounding to its tiny friend, 



It sought a game at play : 

 But, at a touch, upon the grass 



The famish'd one it lies ; 

 And tears of hunger fill, alas ! 



Its full and fading eyes, 

 The sleek fawn seeming almost sad, 



Or else of wonder full, 

 At what could make its friend so bad, 



So weak, so lone, and dull ; 

 Unheeding, though, it did not stay, 

 And, feeling nothing, frisked away. 

 The wretched starv'd one raised its neck, 



A poor and lonely form, 

 That mother's kisses used to deck, 



Ere she had come to harm, 

 And rising thus, it sought each doe : 



No teeming udder meets 

 The little face so full of woe ; 



No parent-fondness greets. 

 Butted, rebuffed, in cold despair, 

 It shivers in a corner near. 

 The felon who had caused its loss, 



In reeking beershop roars away ; 



