Of goodlier hunting-raiment never hath story told.
His mighty frame did a doublet of the velvet black enfold:
With the sable’s fur dark-lustrous his golden hair was crowned;
And ah, what rich-wrought fringes bordered his quiver round!
A panther’s fell, by reason that ever about it clung
A strange sweet scent, encased it: from his shoulders a cross-bow swung
So mighty, that, save with a windlass, none but himself alone
Could bend its arch, yet lightly by his fingers was it done.
Sea-otter’s skin was his mantle, the fell from a far shore brought;
From shoulder to heel with white tufts was it richly overwrought;