Bold blare of horns; shrill music of steel bows;—
A horn! a horn! the hunt is up and goes
Beneath the acorn-dropping oaks in green,—
Dark woodland green, a boar-spear held between
His selle and hunter's head, and at his thigh
A good, broad hanger, and one fist on high
To wind the rapid echoes from his horn,
That start the field birds from the sheavéd corn,
Uphurled in vollies of audacious wings,
That cease again when it no longer sings.