“But the lambs demand thy care,
Those young lambs so blithe and gay,
As the tender grass they tear
And beside the streamlet play.”
“Mother, mother, let me go
To pursue yon mountain roe.”

“But why not the cattle mind
With thy horn's enlivening strain?
Soft and sweet the cow-bells wind,
Tinkling o'er the wooded plain.”
“Mother, mother, let me go,
I must hunt that mountain roe.”

“Rather tend those flowers bright
Which the beds with odours fill:
Does the garden not invite?
And 'tis wild upon the hill.”
“Oh! the flowers—they will grow,
Mother, mother, let me go!”

So the youth a-hunting went,
Driven by resistless force,
And his hardy footsteps bent
Up the mountain's darkest course:
And above him o'er the fell
Fled the quivering gazelle.

To the rocky serried edge
With a certain foot she clings,
And from ledge to crumbling ledge
All unhesitating springs;
But the lad, with eager mind,
Bow in hand, is close behind.

She pursues the rugged trail
And the loftiest peak ascends
Till the rocks behind her fail,
And her path to safety ends.
Bottomless abyss below,
Just behind the cruel bow.

She adjured the heartless man
With her dumb beseeching eyes;
But th' appeal is made in vain,
On the string the arrow lies—
When from out the vastness sheer
See the mountain Wraith appear!

Thanks to his immortal might
Straight the trembling beast was free.
“Shall thy power to kill and blight
Mount,” he cried, “as far as me?
Why on my dear creatures fall?
Surely, Earth has room for all!”