Page:Collected poems vol 2 de la mare.djvu/58

 "Huntsman and horn, huntsman and horn, Shall scour your heaths and coverts lorn,
 * Braying 'em shrill and clear, O;
 * But lone and still
 * Shall lift each hill,
 * Each valley wan and sere, O.

" Ride up you may, ride down you may, Lonely or trooped, by night or day,
 * My hound shall haunt you ever:
 * Bird, beast, and game
 * Shall dread the same,
 * The wild fish of your river."

Her cheek burns angry as the rose, Her eye with wrath and pity flows:
 * He gazes fierce and round, O—
 * "Dear Lord!" he says,
 * "What loveliness
 * To waste upon a hound, O.

"I'd give my stags, my hills and dales, My stormcocks and my nightingales
 * To have undone this deed, O;
 * For deep beneath
 * My heart is death
 * Which for her love doth bleed, O."

He wanders up, he wanders down, On foot, a-horse, by night and noon: