Through ancient groves, where, bare of broom and brake,
The lurking foe might scant concealment gain;
Waban still moved before, and nothing spake;
His rapid glance scanned every thicket near,
And when he paused he bent the listening ear.
XX.
Hour after hour the hunter thus did go,
His eyes still roving and his ears still spread;
His was a spectre’s glide;—but toiling slow,
The lagging group pursued with faltering tread.