He stooped to mark where twanged that hostile bow,
Then sprang from tree to tree, to reach the foe.
XXIII.
But ere he gained the purposed point, or viewed
The fell assassin, the dry fagots’ crash,
The waving coppice, and re-echoing wood,
And sounding footfalls down the brakes that dash,
Told him how vainly he his foe pursued,
Or that pursuit were dangerously rash;
And turning slowly he retraced his track,