A Farewell to a Hunter.

To no misfortune in the field

He bows, fit ending of the game;

No weight of years bids him to yield,

But swift disease that warps his frame.

So Mercy stepping in must break

The bonds that Love would fain hold fast,

And hand-in-hand we come to take

A look we know must be the last.

For ere to-morrow’s sun has died,

His keen bold spirit will have found

That refuge on the other side,

Where dwell the shades of horse and hound.

Farewell, old friend, farewell! and when

The last great leap is left behind,

And passing from the haunts of men,

By earthly limits unconfined,

You roam that strange mysterious land,

That vast beyond where travellers wait,

Where mortal foot may never stand,

Nor mortal vision penetrate,

Oh, let your thoughts drift back and dwell

On joys by memory roused from rest,

When scent was keen, when hounds ran well,

And Fortune gave us of her best.

Recall the pageant of the meet,

The snug gorse covert on the hill,

The good sound turf beneath your feet,

The glorious run, the glorious kill.

Nor think as year by year decays

In robes of russet, red, and gold,

That wanting you, November days

Can be to us as days of old.