The Tired Hunter

Rest thee, old hunter! the evening cool
Will sweetly breathe on thy heated brow,
Thy dogs will lap of the shady pool;
Thou art very weary — O, rest thee now!
Thou hast wander'd far through mazy woods,
Thou hast trodden the bright-plumed birds' retreat,
Thou hast broken in on their solitudes, —
O, give some rest to thy tired feet!
There's not a nook in the forest wide
Nor a leafy dell unknown to thee;
Thy step has been where no sounds, beside
The rustle of wings in the sheltering tree,
The sharp, clear cry of the startled game,
The wind's low murmur, the tempest's roar,
The bay that follow'd thy gun's sure aim,
Or thy whistle shrill, were heard before.
Then rest thee! — thy wife in her cottage-door,
Shading her eyes from the sun's keen ray,
Peers into the forest beyond the moor,
To hail thy coming ere fall of day; —
But thou art a score of miles from home,
And the hues of the kindling autumn leaves
Grow brown in the shadow of evening's dome,
And swing to the rush of the freshening breeze.
Thou must even rest! for thou canst not tread
Till yon star in the zenith of midnight glows,
And a sapphire light over earth is spread,
The place where thy wife and babes repose.
Rest thee a while — and then journey on
Through the wide forest, and over the moor:
Then call to thy dogs, and fire thy gun,
And a taper will gleam from thy cottage-door!