Away!--away!--yon golden sun
Hath chas'd nights' shadows damp and dun;
Forth from his turfy couch, the lark
Hath sprung to meet glad day: and hark!
A mingling and delicious song
Breathes from the blithe-voiced plumy throng;
While, to the green-wood hasten _we_
Whose craft is, gentle archery!
Now swift we bound o'er dewy grass!
Rousing the red fox as we pass,
And startling linnet, merle, and thrush,
As recklessly the boughs we brush.
The _hunter's_ horn sings thro' the brakes.
And its soft lay apt echo takes;
But soon her sweet enamoured tone
Shall tell what song is all _our_ own!
On!--on!--glad brothers of the bow!
The dun deer's couching place ye know,
And gallant bucks this day shall rue
Our feather'd shafts,--so swift,--so true;
Yet, sorer than the sylvan train,
Our foes, upon the battle-plain,
Will mourn at the unerring hands
Of Albion's _matchless_ archer bands!
Now hie we on, to silent shades,
To glist'ning streams, and sunlit glades,
Where all that woodland life can give,
Renders it bliss indeed, to _live_.
Come, ye who love the shadowy wood,
Whate'er your days, whate'er your mood.
And join _us_, freakish knights that be
Of grey-goose wing, and good yew-tree!
Say--are ye _mirthful_?--then we'll sing
Of wayward feasts and frolicking;--
Tell jests and gibes,--nor lack we store
Of knightly tales, and monkish lore;
High freaks of dames and cavaliers,
Of warlocks, spectres, elfs, and seers,
Till with glad heart, and blithesome brow,
Ye bless your brothers of the bow!
Is _sadness_ courted?--ye shall lie
When summer's sultry noons are high,
By darkling forest's shadow'd stream
To muse;--or, sweeter still, to dream
Day-dreams of love; while round ye rise
Distant, delicious harmonies;
Until ye languishing declare
An archer's life, indeed is fair!