Phantasmion :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sylvan stag, securely play,
'Tis the sportful month of May,
Till her music dies away
Fear no huntsman's hollo;
While the cowslip nods her head,
While the fragrant blooms are shed
O'er the turf which thou dost tread,
None thy traces follow.

In the odours wafted round,
Those that breathe from thee are drowned;
Echo voices not a sound,
Fleet one, to dismay thee;

On the budding beeches browse,
None shall come the deer to rouse;
Scattered leaves and broken boughs
Shall not now betray thee.

Sylvan deer! on branches fed,
'Mid the countless branches bred,
Mimic branches on thy head
With the rest are springing;
Smooth them on the russet bark,
Or the stem of cypress dark,
From whose top the woodland lark
Soars to heaven singing.

Bound along or else be still,
Sportive roebuck, at thy will;
Wilding rose and woodbine fill
All the grove with sweetness
Safely may thy gentle roe
O'er the piny hillocks go,
Every white-robed torrent's flow
Rivalling in fleetness.

Peaceful breaks for thee the dawn,
While thou lead'st thy skipping fawn,
Gentle hind, across the lawn
In the forest spreading:
Morn appears in sober vest,
Nor hath eve in roses drest,
By her purple hues exprest,
Aught of thy blood-shedding.

Milk-white doe, 'tis but the breeze
Rustling in the alder trees;
Slumber thou while honey-bees
Lull thee with their humming;
Though the ringdove's plaintive moan
Seem to tell of pleasure flown,
On thy couch with blossoms sown,
Fear no peril coming.

Thou amid the lilies laid,
Seem'st in lily vest array'd,
Fann'd by gales which they have made
Sweet with their perfuming;
Primrose tufts impearl'd with dew;
Bells which heav'n has steep'd in blue
Lend the breeze their odours too,
All around thee blooming.

None shall come to scare thy dreams,
Save perchance the playful gleams;
Wake to quaff the cooling streams
Of the sunlit river;
Thou across the faithless tide
Needest not for safety glide,
Nor thy panting bosom hide
Where the grasses shiver.

When the joyous months are past,
Roses pine in autumn's blast,
When the violets breathe their last,
All that's sweet is flying:
Then the sylvan deer must fly,
'Mid the scatter'd blossoms lie,
Fall with falling leaves and die
When the flow'rs are dying.