Page:The tale of Balen (IA taleofbalen00swin).pdf/124

 Nor fate nor fear might overcast The soul now near its peace at last. Suddenly, thence as forth he past, A mighty and a deadly blast Blown of a hunting-horn he heard, As when the chase hath nobly sped. 'That blast is blown for me,' he said, 'The prize am I who am yet not dead,' And smiled upon the word.

As toward a royal hart's death rang That note, whence all the loud wood sang With winged and living sound that sprang Like fire, and keen as fire's own fang Pierced the sweet silence that it slew. But nought like death or strife was here: Fair semblance and most goodly cheer They made him, they whose troop drew near As death among them drew.