Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/375

349 His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet,

The red-deer driven along its native heights

With cry of hound and horn: and, from that toil

Returned with sinews weakened and relaxed,

This generous Youth, too negligent of self,

(A natural failing which maturer years

Would have subdued) took fearlessly—and kept—

His wonted station in the chilling flood,

Among a busy company convened

To wash his Father's flock. Convulsions dire

Seized him, that self-same night; and through the space

Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrenched,

Till nature rested from her work in death.

—To him, thus snatched away, his Comrades paid

A Soldier's honours. At his funeral hour

Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue,

A golden lustre slept upon the hills;

And if by chance a Stranger, wandering there,

From some commanding eminence had looked

Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen

A glittering Spectacle; but every face

Was pallid,—seldom hath that eye been moist

With tears—that wept not then; nor were the few