King Henry’s Hunt

King Henry stood in Waltham Wood, One morn in merry May-time; Years fifteen hundred thirty-six, From Christ had roll'd away time.

King Henry stood in Waltham Wood, All young green, sunny-shady. He would not mount his pawing horse, Though men and dogs were ready.

"What ails his Highness? Up and down In moody sort he paceth; He is not wont to be so slack, Whatever game he chaseth."

He paced and stopp'd; he paced and turn'd; At times he inly mutter'd; He pull'd his girdle, twitch'd his beard; But not one word he utter'd.

The hounds in couples nosed about, Or on the sward lay idle; The huntsmen stole a fearful glance, While fingering girth or bridle.

Among themselves, but not too loud, The young lords laugh'd and chatter'd, Or broke a branch of hawthorn-bloom, As though it nothing matter'd.

King Henry sat on a fell'd oak, With gloomier eyes and stranger; His brows were knit, his lip he bit; To look that way was danger.

Mused he on pope and emperor? Denied them and defied them? Or traitors in his very realm Complotting? — woe betide them!

Suddenly on the south-west wind, Distinct though distant, sounded A cannon shot, — and to his feet The king of England bounded.

"My horse!" he shouts, — "Uncouple now!" And all were quickly mounted. A hind was found; man, horse, and hound Like furious demons hunted.

Fast fled the deer by grove and glade, The chase did faster follow; And every wild-wood alley rang With hunter's horn and hollo.

Away together streamed the hounds; Forward press'd every rider. You're free to slay a hind in May, If there's no calf beside her.

King Harry rode a mighty horse, His Grace being broad and heavy, And like a stormy wind he crash'd Through copse and thicket leavy.

He rode so hard, and roar'd so loud, All men his course avoided; The fiery steed, long held on fret, With many a snort enjoy'd it.

The hind was kill'd, and down they sat To flagon and to pasty. "Ha, by Saint George, a noble prince! Tho' hot, by times, and hasty."

Lord Norfolk knew, and other few, Wherefore that chase began on The signal of a gun far off, One growl of distant cannon, —

And why so jovial grew his Grace, That erst was sad and sullen: With that boom from the tower, had fall'n The head of fair Anne Bullen.

Her neck, which Henry used to kiss, The bloody axe did sever; Their little child, Elizabeth, She'll see no more forever.

Gaily the king for Greenwich rides; Each moment makes his glee more; He thinks — "To-morrow I'm betrothed, At last, to young Jane Seymour!"

The sunshine falls, the wild-bird calls, Across the slopes of Epping; From grove to glade, through light and shade, The troops of deer are stepping.