'My hope, my heaven, my trust must be, My gentle guide, in following thee!'--He crossed the threshold,--and a clang Of angry steel that instant rang.
To his bold brow his spirit rushed, But soon for vain alarm he blushed When on the floor he saw displayed, Cause of the din, a naked blade Dropped from the sheath, that careless flung Upon a stag's huge antlers swung;For all around, the walls to grace, Hung trophies of the fight or chase:
A target there, a bugle here, A battle-axe, a hunting-spear, And broadswords, bows, and arrows store, With the tusked trophies of the boar.
Here grins the wolf as when he died, And there the wild-cat's brindled hide The frontlet of the elk adorns, Or mantles o'er the bison's horns;Pennons and flags defaced and stained, That blackening streaks of blood retained, And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white, With otter's fur and seal's unite, In rude and uncouth tapestry all, To garnish forth the sylvan hall.
