Were they aware of a wide, roughened sea,
And near the wood the hart upon the sward
Bayed, panting unto death and winded hard.
Right so the king dispatched him and the pryce
Wound on his hunting bugle clearly thrice.
As if each echo, which that wild horn's blast
Waked from its sleep,—the quietude had cast
Tender as mercy on it,—in a band
Rose moving sounds of gladness hand in hand,
Came twelve fair damsels, sunny in sovereign white,