 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
276
BALLAD.—THE YOUNG HUNTER.
I.
Now lend me thy bow, young hunter, Love,And bring me thy cunning and crystal dart,
For I am bound for the gay green wood,
This day to strike or to snare the hart.
The hart that runs in yon gay green wood,
Is famed for a nimble and fearless foot;
He hath every shaft from my quiver stood,
And baffled my arrows and best pursuit.
II.
But arm'd with thy bow, young hunter, Love,Thy wingéd arrow and crystal dart,
My hope is good, in the gay green wood,
This day to snare or to strike the hart:
'Tis a wily hart, that hath strong allies,
To keep his haunts from the hunter free;
And a subtle feeling of fear that flies,
And a passionate pride in his liberty.
III.
He hath prudence, that watches the narrow way,And a sense so keen for the hostile foot,
That horse shall not bound, nor beagle bay,
But he flies, and baffles the best pursuit;
But give me thy bow, young hunter, Love,
Thy wingéd arrow and crystal dart;
And breathe but thy blessing upon my quest,
And let me at once on the chase depart.
277
IV.
Thou hast tamed the master of many a wood,The lion hath crouch'd in his strength to thee;
And the tiger fierce, at his feast of blood,
Thou hast brought to kneel, or made to flee.
Oh! give me thy weapons of magic, Love,
And breathe but thy blessing upon my quest,
And guide me in chase to the secret place
Where that wily hart takes his noonday rest.
V.
Oh! we hunt not the hart with a common art,But with weapon charm'd, and a loving hate;
And we go to the chase with the desperate pace
Of one who deals with a mortal Fate!
And with spells of care we set the snare,
And hallow the charm with a vow of faith;
And we bait with a wile, of tear and smile,
And we lie in wait with a panting breath.
VI.
Oh! I know the game which shall make him tame!I will sing in the forest a song of power,
And with tenderest tone, which shall win him on
To the laurel grove and the myrtle bower;
And, as not to win were a folly and sin,
I will peril myself by a sacrifice;
And bare my own breast, in the happy quest,
And make my own soul, if it needs, the price.
278
VII.
So lend me thy bow, young hunter, Love,And arm me with arrows and crystal dart;
And charm the bow with thy spell of power,
And tip the shaft with thy subtle art;
And yield me the smile that suns the wood,
And fill me with song to lull the air;
And warm my breast, to the loving quest,
To will and to win, when I've laid it bare!
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |