, it looks not like an earthly chase:
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.

Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:
He neither cracked his whip nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat;
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned,
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet:

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched;
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched;
The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Never had living man such joyful lot!)
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,
And gazed, and gazed upon that darling spot.

And climbing up the hill, (it was at least
Four roods of sheer ascent), Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks, which the hunted beast
Had left imprinted in the grassy ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face and cried, 'Till now
Such sight was never seen by human eyes;
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
Down to the very fountain where he lies.

'I'll build a pleasure house upon this spot,
And a small arbour made for rural joy;
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.

'A cunning artist will I have to frame
A basin for that fountain in the dell!
And they who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth shall call it Hart Leap Well.

'And, gallant stag, to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised;
Three several pillars, each a rough hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.

'And in the summer time, when days are long,
I will come hither with my paramour,
And with the dancers and the minstrels' song,
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.

'Till the foundations of the mountains fail,
My mansion with its arbour shall endure;
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!'

Then home he