The moon hath bowed her orb of light,
And here we'll rest, till morn is bright;
The mountain deer were swift to-day,
And far have led our feet astray.

The cottage fire is out; afar
The watch-dog bays the lingering star;
Upon the mount springs up the deer,
And lifts his antlered head to hear.

But he shall rest again his eye
Beside the brook, that murmurs by;
And those in dreams and soft repose
The sense of weariness and woes.

The Hunters too shall sink to sleep,
With burning pines their watch to keep;
While far and near the wakeful trees
Make music in the nightly breeze.

But soon again the sun shall fling
The daylight from his golden wing;
And hills, and woods, and waters far,
Resound with horn and sylvan war.