THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. 355 THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. It was a hundred years ago, When, by the woodland ways, The traveller saw the wild deer drink, Beneath a hill, whose rocky side O'erbrowed a grassy mead, And fenced a cottage from the wind, She only came when on the cliffs The evening moonlight lay, And no man knew the secret haunts White were her feet, her forehead showed A spot of silvery white, That seemed to glimmer like a star In autumn's hazy night. And here, when sang the whippoorwill, She cropped the sprouting leaves, And here her rustling steps were heard On still October eves. But when the broad midsummer moon Rose o'er that grassy lawn, Beside the silver-footed deer There grazed a spotted fawn. The cottage dame forbade her son To aim the rifle here; "It were a sin," she said, "to harm Or fright that friendly deer. "This spot has been my pleasant home Ten peaceful years and more; And ever, when the moonlight shines, She feeds before our door. "The red men say that here she walked A thousand moons ago; They never raise the war-whoop here, And never twang the bow. "I love to watch her as she feeds, And think that all is well THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. 357 While such a gentle creature haunts The youth obeyed, and sought for game In forests far away, Where, deep in silence and in moss, But once, in autumn's golden time, Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, The crescent moon and crimson eve He raised the rifle to his eye, A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, Away into the neighbouring wood Amid the glimmering dew. Next evening shone the waxing moon As sweetly as before; The deer upon the grassy mead Was seen again no more. But ere that crescent moon was old, And burnt the cottage to the ground, Now woods have overgrown the mead, There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon, And prowls the fox at night. THE WANING MOON. 359 THE WANING MOON. I'VE watched too late; the morn is near; Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear, Even while your glow is on your cheek, The heart grows faint, the hand grows weak, See where upon the horizon's brim, Late, in a flood of tender light, She floated through the ethereal blue, A softer sun, that shone all night Upon the gathering beads of dew. And still thou wanest, pallid moon! The encroaching shadow grows apace; |