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And with his branching antlers he

Forced shrub and tree,

Well pleased to bound

With eager footsteps o'er the ground.

speeds o'er the mountain's top,

Nor in the valley does he stop;

But with his battle weapons thrown

Across his shoulders, hastens on,

And with those weapons sharp and strong,

Breaks through the foeman's throng.

that youth no mountain pass'd;

A foe—a fierce and savage foe

His frown of darkness round him cast,

Smote that poor wanderer low

With battle-axe upon his breast:

A voice of mourning filled the groves—