silence still more deep—

                    More deep the gloom!

  Into the heart a terror sank:

  The vegetation lush and rank

                      On all sides ran,

  And looped and drooped in bine and twine;
  And never trace or track or sign

                     Of living man!

  #####

  Down by the river that runs through the wood
  The horns are gaily winding.

  Tra-la-la-la! That music good
    Denotes the red deer's finding!

             Tra-la-la-la!

                  La-la! la-la!

        The echoes repeat
    The music sweet
    That tells of the red deer's finding!

  Over the river and over the plain,

    Through forest, vale, and hollow!

  Tra-la-la-la! That note again
    Bids all good huntsmen follow.

             Tra-la-la-la!

                  La-la! la-la!

         The sweet notes fail
         Along the gale,

    Then, all good huntsmen, follow!

  By many a mile of moorland vast,
  By many a mile of forest—
  Tra-la-la-la!—the huntsman's blast
  Tells where the chase is sorest.
  Tra-la-la-la!

  La-la! la-la!

  Oh, hapless deer,

       Thy fate is near,

       Which vainly thou deplorest.

       In vain the flying quarry seeks

              The dark wood's friendly branches:

       The chase is done—its race is run,

       The dogs are at its haunches.

             The Prince looks back. He rides alone,
             His suite no longer follow,

             And he can hear no friendly cheer
             In answer to his holloa!

                   What a chase!

                   What a race!

       What a terrible pace!

  He's outridden his friends. It's a very queer case—
  Where can he have got? What's the name of the place
  He 'll never be able his steps to retrace!

       He pulls up his steed,

       Not too early, indeed,

  For the poor beast is finished, it shakes like a reed.

  If his home lay quite near,

  And he knew where to steer,

  His horse could not carry him there—that is clear.

     Meanwhile each lengthening shadow shows
     That day is drawing to a close.

  In two more hours the glowing sun
  Will down the western heavens run,

     And quench its glories manifold
     In yon bright sea of molten gold.

  Before him that dense thicket vast and dim
  Spreads out its awful silence and seclusion,

  And none is near to tell its tale to him

  And scare intrusion.

  On either side his path a giant bole

     Rears its huge form, a rude gigantic column.

  That gloomy portal does not fill his soul

  With fancies solemn.

  His step is light on the luxuriant sod,

     From the green blades a thousand dew-drops spurning.
  Little he dreams that path has ne'er been trod

  By foot returning.

  Heedless he views the dark nooks in the glades,

     Passing to spots that shafts of sunlight brighten—
  Nor knows that human bones within those shades

  Are laid to whiten.

  For him there is no terror in the spot,

     No hint of deaths to which it interest sad owes;

  For him no spectres its bright sunshine blot,

  Or fill its shadows.

          For him the secret of that grove