THE DEATH OF KEELDAlt. 
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Man, hound, or horse of higher fame. 
To wake the wild deer never came. 
Since Alnwick’s earl pursued the game. 
On Cheviot’s rueful day : 
Keeldar was matchless in his speed ; 
Than Tarras ne’er was stauncher steed ; 
A peerless archer Percy Rede : 
And right dear friends were they. 
The chase engrossed their joys and woes. 
Together at the dawn they rose, 
Together shared the noon’s repose. 
By fountain or by stream ; 
And oft when evening skies were red. 
The heather was their common bed. 
While each, as wildering fancy led. 
Still hunted in his dream. 
Now is the thrilling moment near 
Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear, 
Yon thicket holds the harboured deer. 
The signs the hunters know; — 
With eyes of flame and quivering ears. 
The brake sagacious Keeldar nears. 
The restless palfrey paws and rears. 
The archer strings his bow. 
The game’s a foot ! — Halloo ! Halloo ! 
Hunter and horse and hound pursue; — 
But woe the shaft that erring flew — 
That e’er it left the string ! 
And ill betide the faithless yew ! 
The stag bounds scathless through the dew. 
And gallant Keeldar’s life-blood true 
Hath drenched the grey goose wing. 
The noble hound — he dies, he dies ! 
Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes. 
Stiff on the bloody heath he lies. 
Without a moan or quiver. 
Now day may break and bugle sound. 
And vvhoop and halloo ring around. 
And o’er his couch the stag may bound. 
But Keeldar sleeps for ever. 
Dilated nostrils, staring eyes, 
Mark the poor palfrey’s mute surprise, — 
He knows not that his comrade dies. 
Nor what is death — but still 
His aspect hath expression drear 
Of grief and wonder, mixed with fear. 
Like startled children when they hear 
Some mystic tale of ill. 
But he that bent that fatal bow 
Can well the sum of evil know. 
And o’er his favourite bending low 
In speechless grief recline ; 
