Morn; and the Autumn, dreaming, sat among His ancient hills; Autumn, who now was wrung By crafty ministers, sun, rain, and frost, To don imperial pomp at any cost. On each wild hill he reared his tents of war, Flaunting barbaric standards wide and far, Around which camp-fires of the red leaves raged: His tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged, Who, in a little fretful while, would soon Work red rebellion under some wan moon: Pluck his old beard, deriding; shriek and tear His royalty; and scatter through the air His tattered majesty: then from his head Dash down its golden crown; and in its stead Set up a death's-head mockery of snow, And leave him stripped, a beggar bowed with woe. Blow, wood wind, blow! the day is fair and fine As autumn skies can make it; brisk as brine The air is, rustling in the underbrush, 'Mid which the stag-hounds leap, the huntsmen rush. Hark to the horns! the music of the bows! À mort! à mort!--The hunt is up and goes, Beneath the acorn-dropping oaks, in green,-- Dark woodland green,--a boar-spear held between His selle and hunter's head; and at his thigh A good broad hanger; and one hand on high To wind his horn, that startles many a wing, And makes the forest echoes reel and ring. Away, away they flash, a belted band From Camelot, through the haze-haunted land: With many a leamer leashed, and many a hound, With mouths of bell-like music, now that bound, Uncoupled, forward; for, behold! the hart, A ten-tined buck, doth from the covert dart. And the big stag-hounds swing into the chase, The wild horns sing. The pryce seems but a pace On ere 'tis wound. But, see! where interlace The dense-briared thickets, now the hounds have lost The slot, there where their woodland way is crossed By intercepting waters full of leaves.