He now, half-spent, regains the wood, Or plunges in the running flood: Each brake he tries, and traces o'er Those haunts he knew so well before, Where he had led the herd to graze In better times, and happier days; When Peace beam'd o'er the Sylvan reign, Nor hounds nor horns disturb'd the plain. What shall he do, or whither fly ;— His strength is gone—the foe is nigh : He lifts his weary limbs with pain, That scarce their tott'ring load sustain. One effort more in vain he tries,— The hounds o'ertake him—and he dies. The horns breathe forth the plaintive strain, Whose notes proclaim-'The deer is slain.' DEATH follow'd on his courser pale, He veil'd himself from ev'ry eye. Nor can they stop the Courser's speed, Down the steep cliff.—The Chase is o'er— Thus 'tis with man: whate'er his views, Or strives to place the glitt'ring plume Does distant seas and realms explore; The honour of a Patriot's name : What though the Cypress' mournful shade Or the clear verdure of the sod DEATH-MIGHTY HUNTER-earths them all! THE STATESMAN It is not wealth, it is not power Then goes to rest-to wake no more. The rosy cheek of youth grows pale; And set the teeth of ivory. What, though we reach the heights of Fame, Or boast of Honour's proudest name: |