THE STAG.
It is morning, and the sky,
Like a royal canopy,
Burns with crimson and with gold;
And from out his cloudy hold
Joyfully breaks forth the sun,
While each thing he looks upon
Seems bright as if only born
For that first glad hour of morn.
What sweet sound then pass'd along?
'Twas the skylark's earliest song.
What soft breath is floating by?
The wild rose's waking sigh,
Breathing odours, as the gale
Shakes away her dewy veil.
There are other sights than these,
Other sounds are on the breeze:
Hearken to the baying hound,
Hearken to the bugles sound;
Horse-tramp, shout, upon the ear,
Tell the hunter-band are near.
Sweep they now across the plain—
Sooth it is a gallant train:
Many a high-born dame is there;
Dance their rich curls on the air,
Catching many a golden hue,
Catching many a pearl of dew;
