Requiem First, XXXII

’Twas noon, when o’er the Thistly Moor The funeral held its mazy route, When roused by sounds unheard before The wily fox was on the scout; The woodcock plied his jetty wing, The red deer made his lofty spring, A moment view’d the dark array, Next fleetly bounding shot away, Just stopp’d to slake his thirst in Tyne, Then, arrow-like, straight onward flew, Till on the horizon’s farthest line His antlers pierced the heaven’s blue!—