The quarry’s mortal dread to see,
And in her gentleness she willed
To ward its dire extremity;
With uplift hands and eager eyes,
And cheeks bereft of their rosy dyes,
‘Gawen, my Gawen! come back,’ she cried,
The hawk, true vassal, turned aside,
Doubtful, upon his pinions wide,
Then, like a servant of a charm,
Sank to his perch on the lady’s arm,