Nor fate nor fear might overcast
The soul now near its peace at last.
Suddenly, thence as forth he past,
A mighty and a deadly blast
⁠Blown of a hunting-horn he heard,
As when the chase hath nobly sped.
'That blast is blown for me,' he said,
'The prize am I who am yet not dead,'
⁠And smiled upon the word.

As toward a royal hart's death rang
That note, whence all the loud wood sang
With winged and living sound that sprang
Like fire, and keen as fire's own fang
⁠Pierced the sweet silence that it slew.
But nought like death or strife was here:
Fair semblance and most goodly cheer
They made him, they whose troop drew near
⁠As death among them drew.