On a Fawn's Hoof

Have I not seen: thee, little hoof, before
Thou wast a handle to my stable-door ?
Have I not seen thee trotting o'er the park
In dread when distant hounds began to bark ?
Ah ! how much rather would I see thee now
With branching horns above thy lifted brow,
Commanding me by angry stamp to go
And keep away from where lie fawn and doe.
I never thought to feel again for deer
The guilt of murder that confronts me here.