The lovely maid would steal to think of him;—
A stir!—a motion!—it was not the breeze
That shook the hedge,—for why waved not the trees?
He started and awoke—again it shook,—
His gun was in his hand—one hurried look,
One rapid touch—the fatal ball was sped,—
A long wild shriek was heard, and Giulio's dream was read.
In triumph now, he thought of home again,—
The prize was his, the wolf at length was slain—
Swift as the ball that from his rifle flew,