THE DEATH OF VENUS.* 



BY WILLIAM PITTMAN LETT. 



LAS ! poor Venus noblest hound 

 That ever sprang with eager bound 

 The instant that the scent was found 



Thy final hunt is o'er! 

 Never again thy bugle-note 

 Shall on the breeze of morning float; 

 The matchless music of thy throat 

 Shall greet our ears no more. 



This finger, holding now the pen, 



Was on the rifle-trigger when, 



With lightning swiftness, down the glen 



The buck in terror came. 

 Fierce in his wake thy strides came fast, 

 And loud thy voice swelled on the blast. 

 Ah! little thought I 'twas thy last 



Run with the noble game ! 



Thou wert of stanch, unrivaled breed; 

 Swift as the Antelope in speed, 

 Thy voice was ever in the lead, 



Thou queen of all the pack! 

 Not one could wind the game like thee, 

 Or bound away so lithe and free, 

 Or follow with such certainty 



A cold and scentless track ! 



True as the best Damascus blade, 

 By process of refinement made; 

 Perfect, without a single shade 



To mar thy matchless fame ! 

 When tliou wert slipped to scour the wood, 

 The watcher of the runway stood 

 With confidence that smoke and blood 



Would soon be in the game. 



* Venus was killed by poison carelessly set out for Foxes. She was a noble hound, true, 

 swift, and tireless, and had been in at the death of many a Deer. 



