THE HUNTER'S LEAP.

22i

Nor slack the gallant bay—his chest he bearsIn act to spring, when now the topmost bar

Strikes the pain'd hoof—and vainly now he rears-His efforts fail,—he falls—and distant far

The prostrate rider feels (with parting breath

And shortened sobs) the icy hand of Death.

The merry sportsmen pass him by,

And deem some stunning blowHas laid him, and they let him lie,

While on they cheering go.But none take warning by his fate,Though Death upon the leap should wait.

Simon Surefoot.