Did he, his homeward pathway wending,
Droop ’neath his spoil, with footsteps slow.
Then, as he breathless paused, and faint,
The shout of joy that pealed on high
As broke that landscape on his eye,
Imaginings alone can paint.
Down on the granite brow, his prey,
In all its antlered glory lay.
His plumage flowed above the spoil—
His quiver, and the slackened bow,