And now it was dawn.

He rose strong on his feet,

And strode to his ruined camp below the wood;

He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet;
His murderers round him stood.

Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,

The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to a dazzling white; He turned, and saw the golden circle at last,

Cut by the Eastern height.

"O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,

I have lived, I praise and adore Thee."

Over the pass the voices one by one

A sword swept.

Faded, and the hill slept.

Henry Newbolt [1862

THE LAST HUNT

OH, it's twenty gallant gentlemen
Rode out to hunt the deer,
With mirth upon the silver horn

And gleam upon the spear;

They galloped through the meadow-grass,
They sought the forest's gloom,
And loudest rang Sir Morven's laugh,

And lightest tossed his plume.

There's no delight by day or night
Like hunting in the morn;
So busk ye, gallant gentlemen,
And sound the silver horn!

They rode into the dark greenwood
By ferny dell and glade,—
And now and then upon their cloaks
The yellow sunshine played;

They heard the timid forest-birds

Break off amid their glee,

They saw the startled leveret,
But not a stag did see.

Wind, wind the horn, on summer morn!
Though ne'er a buck appear,

There's health for horse and gentleman
A-hunting of the deer!

They panted up Ben Lomond's side
Where thick the leafage grew,
And when they bent the branches back
The sunbeams darted through;
Sir Morven in his saddle turned,
And to his comrades spake,
"Now quiet! we shall find a stag
Beside the Brownies' Lake."

Then sound not on the bugle-horn,
Bend bush and do not break,
Lest ye should start the timid hart
A-drinking at the lake.

Now they have reached the Brownies' Lake,A blue eye in the wood,

And on its brink a moment's space

All motionless they stood: When, suddenly, the silence broke

With fifty bowstrings' twang,

And hurtling through the drowsy air
Full fifty arrows sang.

Ah, better for those gentlemen,
Than horn and slender spear,
Were morion and buckler true,
A-hunting of the deer.

Not one of that brave company
Shall hunt the deer again;

Some fell beside the Brownies' Pool,
Some dropped in dell or glen;
An arrow pierced Sir Morven's breast,
His horse plunged in the lake,
And swimming to the farther bank
He left a bloody wake.

Ah, what avails the silver horn,
And what the slender spear?
There's other quarry in the wood
Beside the fallow deer!

O'er ridge and hollow sped the horse
Besprent with blood and foam,
Nor slackened pace until at eve
He brought his master home.
How tenderly the Lady Ruth
The cruel dart withdrew!
"False Tirrell shot the bolt," she said,
"That my Sir Morven slew!"

Deep in the forest lurks the foe,
While gayly shines the morn:
Hang up the broken spear, and blow
A dirge upon the horn.

William Roscoe Thayer [1859

ANDRE'S RIDE

WHEN André rode to Pont-du-lac,
With all his raiders at his back,

Mon Dieu! the tumult in the town!

Scarce clanged the great portcullis down
Ere in the sunshine gleamed his spears,
And up marched all his musketeers,
And far and fast in haste's array
Sped men to fight and priests to pray:
In every street a barricade

Of aught that lay to hand was made;
From every house a man was told,
Nor quittance given to young or old:
Should youth be spared or age be slack
When André rode to Pont-du-lac?

When André rode to Pont-du-lac,
With all his ravening reiver-pack,
The mid lake was a frozen road
Unbending to the cannon's load;

No warmth the sun had as it shone;

The kine were stalled, the birds were gone;

Like wild things seemed the shapes of fur
With which was every street astir,
And over all the huddling crowd

The thick breath hung-a solid cloud,-
Roof, road, and river, all were white;
Men moved benumbed by day—by night
The boldest durst not bivouac,
When André rode to Pont-du-lac.

When André rode to Pont-du-lac,
We scarce could stem his swift attack;
A halt, a cheer, a bugle-call,—
Like wild-cats they were up the wall:
But still as each man won the town,
We tossed him from the ramparts down;
And when at last the stormers quailed,
And back the assailants shrank assailed,
Like wounded wasps that still could sting,
Or tigers that had missed their spring,
They would not fly, but turned at bay
And fought out all the dying day;-
Sweet saints! it was a curious track
That André left by Pont-du-lac.

When André rode to Pont-du-lac,
Said he, "A troop of girls could sack
This huckster town, that hugs its hoard
But wists not how to wield a sword."
It makes my blood warm now to know
How soon Sir Cockerel ceased to crow,
And how 'twas my sure dagger-point
In André's harness found a joint:
For I, who now am old, was young,
And strong the thews were, now unstrung,
And deadly though our danger then,
I would that day were back again;
Ay, would to God that day were back
When André rode to Pont-du-lac!

THE BALLAD OF FATHER GILLIGAN

THE old priest Peter Gilligan

Was weary night and day;

For half his flock were in their beds,

Or under green sods lay.

Once, while he nodded on a chair,

At the moth-hour of eve,

Another poor man sent for him,
And he began to grieve.

“I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,

For people die and die";

And after cried he, "God forgive!

My body spake, not I!”

He knelt, and leaning on the chair

He prayed and fell asleep;

And the moth-hour went from the fields,

And stars began to peep.

They slowly into millions grew,

And leaves shook in the wind;

And God covered the world with shade,

And whispered to mankind.

Upon the time of sparrow chirp

When the moths came once more,

The old priest Peter Gilligan

Stood upright on the floor.

"Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died,

While I slept on the chair";

He roused his horse out of his sleep,

And rode with little care.

He rode now as he never rode,

By rocky lane and fen;

The sick man's wife opened the door:

"Father! you come again!"