And sought an undiscoverable lair
Toward the dim, setting sun,
With empty quiver and a broken bow,
And gloomy brow contorted by despair.
The game he hunted craftily is gone,
And meadow-grass conceals his ancient trail;
The flock is feeding where his camp-fire shone,
And rang his whoop of triumph on the gale.
His implements of battle and the chase,
Are often found near my romantic bower,