Light bounds with deftest speed the hart, Wide o'er the country borne; Now closer prest a refuge seeks Where waves the ripening corn. See, the poor owner of the field Approach with tearful eyes; 'O pity, pity, good my lords!' Alas! in vain he cries. 'O spare what little store the poor By bitter sweat can earn!' Now soft the milder horseman warns The baron to return. Not so persuades his stern compeer, Best pleas'd with darkest deeds; Tis his to sway the baron's heart, Reckless what mercy pleads. 'Away!' the imperious noble cries; 'Away, and leave us free! Off! or by all the powers of hell, Thou too shalt hunted be! 'Here, fellows! let this villain prove My threats were not in vain: Loud lash around his piteous face The whips of all my train.' Tis said, tis done: swift o'er the fence The baron foremost springs; Swift follow hound, and horse, and man, And loud the welkin rings. Loud rings the welkin with their shouts, While man, and horse, and hound, Ruthless tread down each ripening ear, Wide o'er the smoking ground. O'er heath and field, o'er hill and dale, Scared by the approaching cries, Still close pursued, yet still unreach'd, Their destin'd victim flies. Now mid the lowing herds that graze Along yon verdant plain, He hopes, concealed from every eye, A safe retreat to gain. In vain, for now the savage train Press ravening on his heels: See, prostrate at the baron's feet The affrighted herdsman kneels. Fear for the safety of his charge Inspires his faltering tongue; 'O spare,' he cries, 'these harmless beasts, Nor work an orphan's wrong. 'Think, here thy fury would destroy A friendless widow's all!' He spoke:--the gentle stranger strove To enforce soft pity's call. Not so persuades his sullen frere, But pleas'd with darkest deeds; Tis his to sway the baron's heart, Reckless what mercy pleads. 'Away, audacious hound!' he cries; 'Twould do my heart's-blood good, Might I but see thee transform'd to beasts Thee and thy beggar brood. 'Then, to the very gates of heaven, Who dare to say me nay! With joy I'd hunt the losel fry; Come fellows, no delay!' See, far and wide the murderous throng Deal many a deadly wound; Mid slaughter'd numbers, see, the hart Sinks bleeding on the ground. Yet still he summons all his strength For one poor effort more, Staggering he flies; his silver sides Drop mingled sweat and gore. And now he seeks a last retreat Deep in the darkling dell, Where stands, amidst embowering oaks, A hermit's holy cell.