Hawk and Heron. 237 



Over the creek, and over the moor, with its drifts of grey lichen 



stone, 

 Away for the reedy swamp, where he'd oft brooded lorn and 



lone. 



A Hawk flew out of the forest, from his perch on a naked bough, 

 Battling his flight in illuminate air, with no longer a look below, 

 Dashing in spiral circles the beams as the phosphorent waves of 



the bay, 

 Till with pencils of light his quivering plumes glittered as star 



in the day. 



The Hawk was earl of the forest, and feudal chief of the herne, 

 No parvenu, but a Norman lord; so, when quarrie he did 



discern, 



On the rights divine of Falconidcs Sir Peregrine took his stand, 

 And stooped as a lordly emperor stoops on a feeble frontier land. 



Wheeling, the Heron, with point to the foe, eye steady, and 



ready stroke, 

 Watched well and smote, as the flashing Hawk through the 



dazzling sunlight broke, 

 Struck him inside his carte and tierce, and ere he could parry 



the glance, 

 Spitted him as a Tartar impaled on a Polish lance. 



" Sic semper Tyrannis ! " Thus immutable fate decrees; 

 Hawk, headlong over and over, falls into the ripple of trees, 

 While the Heron spreads its pinions, and leisurely crossing the 



creek, 

 Relights on the branch of the withered pine, and wipes the blood 



from its beak. 



