The Stag Hunt

James Thomson (1700–1748)

From “The Seasons: Autumn”

THE STAG too, singled from the herd where long

He ranged, the branching monarch of the shades,

Before the tempest drives. At first, in speed

He, sprightly, puts his faith; and, roused by fear,

Gives all his swift aerial soul to flight.

Against the breeze he darts, that way the more

To leave the lessening murderous cry behind:

Deception short! though fleeter than the winds

Blown o’er the keen-aired mountain by the north,

He bursts the thickets, glances through the glades,

And plunges deep into the wildest wood,—

If slow, yet sure, adhesive to the track

Hot-steaming, up behind him come again

The inhuman rout, and from the shady depth

Expel him, circling through his every shift.

He sweeps the forest oft; and sobbing sees

The glades, mild opening to the golden day,

Where, in kind contest, with his butting friends

He wont to struggle, or his loves enjoy.

Oft in the full-descending flood he tries

To lose the scent, and lave his burning sides;

—Oft seeks the herd; the watchful herd, alarmed,

With selfish care avoid a brother’s woe.

What shall he do? His once so vivid nerves,

So full of buoyant spirit, now no more

Inspire the course; but fainting breathless toil,

Sick, seizes on his heart: he stands at bay;

And puts his last weak refuge in despair.

The big round tears run down his dappled face;

He groans in anguish; while the growling pack,

Blood-happy, hang at his fair jutting chest,

And mark his beauteous checkered sides with gore.