With the whole party thundering at his heels.
The wily deer too long has got the start,
And now from distant hill-side sees the foe
Come panting up the dell with weary limb.
A moment only does she look, then turns
And glides in silence down the other side;
And when the Huntsmen gain the lofty height,
The deer is far away—the chase is o’er.
Oh! who can sing the glories of the woods,
When Indian Summer, like a death-smile, rests