Classic Poem

He comes to the oat-field each night to feed,
From the croft you see him plainly, —
The mighty beast, that with toilsome heed
I've followed all day so vainly.

All else is asleep in the full moon's glow,
But with hot hunter's lust I'm waking
Behind the hedge where the willows grow,
No breath the silence is breaking.

Then he steps from the pines with a stately mien
As though from his autumn castle,
He strides like a monarch with gait serene,
The leaves round his antlers rustle.

Through the misty wavering moonlight stream
I watch him peacefully roam there;
Fantastic of form, as though like a dream
Of the forest primeval he'd come there.

He seems to me now far more than a beast,
Yea, more than a human creature;
A prouder lord of the wilds at least,
A first-born son of Dame Nature.

Again my hunter's blood runs hot,
But I pause ere I pull the trigger;
I have not the heart to send a shot
At that moonlit majestic figure.

To win such a prize by fraud were a shame,
So back through the thicket of willow
I creep. To-morrow we'll start our game
As usual, my fine fellow.

We'll then play fair. Your legs are good,
And you will be finely started;
If I can but catch you in the wood,
I shall not be moonshine-hearted.

And if but my trembling hand be sure
When I aim at your mighty shoulder,
My shot will ring over heath and moor,
And my horn from boulder to boulder.

I'll gloat on each prong of the antlered head
Which proudly you once could carry,
And glad o'er the dewy hills I'll tread
At eve with my royal quarry.