. . . . .
If I were a god I would get me a spear, I would
get me horse and dog,
And merrily, merrily I would ride through covert
and brake and bog,
With hound and horn and laughter loud, over the
hills and away--
For there is no sport like that of a god with a
man that stands at bay!
Ho! but the morning is fresh and fair, and oh!
but the sun is bright,
And yonder the quarry breaks from the brush and
heads for the hills in flight;
A minute's law for the harried thing--then follow
him, follow him fast,
With the bellow of dogs and the beat of hoofs
and the mellow bugle's blast.
. . . . . .
Hillo! Halloo! they have marked a man! there is
sport in the world to-day--
And a clamor swells from the heart of the wood that
tells of a soul at bay!
A DREAM CHILD
WHERE tides of tossed wistaria bloom
Foam up in purple turbulence,
Where twining boughs have built a room
And wing'd winds pause to garner scents
And scattered sunlight flecks the gloom,
She broods in pensive indolence.
What is the thought that holds her thrall,
That dims her sight with unshed tears?
What songs of sorrow droop and fall
In broken music for her ears?
What voices thrill her and recall
The poignant joy of happier years?
She dreams 'tis not the winds which pass
That whisper through the shaken vine;
Whose footstep stirs the rustling grass
None else that listened might divine;
She sees her child that never was
Look up with longing in his eyne.
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