The huntsman blew his horn, ere listless day Had from his shoulder thrown his robe of gray, Ere he had shaken from his shining hair The rosy mists which irrigate the air. Lord Henry heard--and from his pillow sprung, And bold responsive notes he cheerily sung; Then, "Wake my love!" the happy husband cried, To her, who, sweetly slumbering at his side, Wish'd still, thus slumbering, to wear the morn, And almost chid the tyrant horn-- Yet quick she rose, and quick her busy maids, Folding her yellow locks in careless braids, Equipp'd her for the field--sweeping she flew, Like a slim arrow from the graceful yew. Her jet-black steed more lively seem'd to bound, When the light burden on his back he found-- The jet-black steed her husband had bestow'd, When first, a huntress, at his side she rode; Long was his streaming main, his eye of fire, Proved his descent from no ignoble sire; He sprung 'midst Araby's far distant plains, Whose sands the bleeding violet never stains. And now the day in all his glories drest, Seem'd at the bugle's call to shake off rest. He pour'd his beams around in ample floods-- Rivers of light descended on the woods; The plains, the valleys drank the radiant shower, Each plant received it, and each gentle flower. The Hunt inspir'd, the ambient æther rent With varied sounds, as their keen course they bent: The dogs, deep-mouth'd, in chorus form'd the cry, And sent their forest greetings to the sky; The horn's full tone swell'd each pervading note, And harmony and joy around the country float.