Poetry Archives

The squirrel that’s sporting
   Amid the green leaves,
Full oft, with its rustle,
   The hunter deceives;
Who starts—and believing
   That booty is nigh,
His heart, for a moment,
   With pleasure beats high.

“Now, courage!” he mutters,
   And crouching below
A thunder-split linden,
   He waits for his foe:
“Ha! joy to the hunter;
   A monstrous bear
E’en now is approaching,
   And bids me prepare.

“Hark! hark! for the monarch
   Of forests, ere long,
Will breathe out his bellow,
   Deep-throated and strong:”
Thus saying, he gazes
   Intently around;
But, death to his wishes!
   Can hear not a sound:

Except when, at moments,
   The wind rising shrill
Wafts boughs from the bushes,
   Across the lone hill.
Wo worth, to thee, squirrel,
   Amid the green leaves,
Full oft thy loud rustle
   The hunter deceives.