Classic Poem

A stag o'er forest, field, and hill,
Wander'd at his capricious will,
Now up, now down the mountain side,
And shook his branching antlers wide,
And with his branching antlers he
Forced shrub and tree,
Well pleased to bound
With eager footsteps o'er the ground.

A youth speeds o'er the mountain's top,
Nor in the valley does he stop;
But with his battle weapons thrown
Across his shoulders, hastens on,
And with those weapons sharp and strong,
Breaks through the foeman's throng.

Alas! that youth no mountain pass'd;
A foe — a fierce and savage foe
His frown of darkness round him cast,
Smote that poor wanderer low
With battle-axe upon his breast:
A voice of mourning filled the groves —
And his freed spirit hasten'd to its rest.
Thro' his fair neck life's franchis'd spirit roves,
Thro' his fair neck and thro' his lovely lips.
Lo! there he lies — the warm blood flies
After his spirit, — but that spirit's fled,
And in the sanguine stream the green grass dips;
The cold earth drinks that rivulet of red.
Sadness o'erpower'd the heart of every maid;
The youth upon the frigid turf lay dead,
And o'er him grew an oak, whose branches spread
Widely around and proudly overhead.

The wild deer with his antlers high
Oft the tall oak tree hastened by,
And stretch'd his graceful neck the leaves among:
Of sparrow-hawks a throng
Came from the neighbouring woods to bide
Upon that oak, and screaming cried —
" The youth beneath a foeman's fury fell, "
And all the maidens wept, the tale remembering well.