 | Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative |  |
THE HUNTER OF CALAWASSEE;
A LEGEND OF SOUTH CAROLINA.
I.
When bites, in bleak November, the blast that rives the tree,And scatters wide the yellow leaves, so sweetly sad to see,
Its voice's moaning murmur, borne through the trembling wood,
Awakes the heedful hunter up, and stirs his drowsy blood;—
In ancient times a summons meet, for all who struck the deer,
He will not be the last to heed, who's still the first to hear;
He plucks the rifle from its rest, he winds the yellow horn,
And sweet the music of the sound through all the forest borne.
II.
'Way down where ghostly cypress and dodder'd oaks spread free,By the winding fen of Calawass, and on to Ocketee,
The mellow notes go searching far, the bloodhound's bay is full,—
Shame light upon that hunter now whose bosom's beat is dull!
There's life within that bugle note, steeds snort and riders shout,
And life, in every bound they take, is gushing gladly out;
A spirit rends the thicket,—upstarts the couchant deer,
Shakes from his sluggish flanks the dew, and bounds away in fear.
III.
“Now sound your horns,” cried Kedar, “and let the hunt be up,And bring me, ere we start, my boy, a strong and stirring cup;
The blood, that should be bounding still, lies lazily at rest;
Not long to rest, for, by my soul, and all the saints! I swear,
This day I perish, or I kill the buck that harbors here,—
That one-horn'd buck;”—“Nay, swear not so, dear master,” thus he cried,
The aged slave, who then drew nigh and stood by Kedar's side.
IV.
“Now, out upon thy coward soul!” cried Kedar to the slave;“Thou wast a man upon a time,—my father thought thee brave;
But age has dull'd thy spirit—thy limbs have need of rest,
This air's too keen for such as thou—go, harbor in thy nest;
Fool-fears have quell'd thy manhood, and, in this buck I seek,
Thou find'st a foe whose very name 'twould white thy lips to speak;
But though he be the fiend himself, and stand before my eyes,
This day I hunt him down, I say, and deer or hunter dies!”
V.
Then sadly spoke that aged slave—“Oh, master, swear not so—Leave hunting of this one-horn'd buck, that's like no beast we know;
He makes no slot, no entry leaves, though through the closest brakes
Of bush, or cane, or thicket swamp, his headlong course he takes:
Still bears the same erected port, and never frays a head;—
Two seasons have you hunted him, and still with evil sped;
The first”—“Now, fool,” then Kedar cried, “be still for very s[illeg.]
VI.
“Sound, hunters, ere this idle tale arrest the sluggish blood,And lend to braver hearts than his yon aged dotard's mood;
It is my oath this day to track that buck unto his den,
And we shall see if he or me shall live for hunt again;—
Two seasons hath he baffled us, 'twere shame if still he may,
And I am sworn, and heed my oath, to end the toil to-day;
And Lauto, you shall stay behind—I would not have you drive;
If such the fears that fill your heart, the hunt can never thrive.”
VII.
“I'll go, my master,” cried the slave, with sorrow in his tone,“If fears are in old Lauto's heart, they're fears for you alone;
Here, Willow, Wand, and Wallow!”—three dogs of famous breed,
That had a boast from Rollo's pack, the Norman's, to be seed:—
He sounded then most cheerily, that aged slave, and cried,
'Till, from the kennel, all the pack, came bounding to his side;
He took the route his master bade, and with a heavy heart,
That shook with fears he could not name, did Lauto then depart.
VIII.
'Twas standing in a cypress grove, that, by the Ocketee,Kept crowding shadows that forbade the searching eye to see,
Young Kedar waited long to hear the music of the hounds,
That told the hunt was up, and fill'd the wood with cheering sounds;
No sound he heard, yet, on his sight, that one-horn'd deer arose,
As speeding on, he left behind, in secret, all his foes:—
And lifting up his rifle then, he stood with ready aim.
IX.
Three strides the buck hath taken, his single horn on high,And then he stay'd his forward flight, and look'd with steady eye;
He look'd upon the cypress grove where Kedar watching stood,
Then, turning, took his easy way toward the distant wood.
This madden'd Kedar then to see, and to his steed he gave
Free rein and rashing spur, and went as if some devil drave;
With shriek and shout he bounded on, and wonder'd to behold
How easy was the gait he went, that deer, along the wold.
X.
And still nor horn nor hound he heard, and nothing did he see,Save that one deer that, fleeing, seem'd as not to care to flee;
This vex'd young Kedar to behold—a madness fill'd his blood,
And shouting as he went, he flew, with fury through the wood;
He heeded not for stop or stay—he look'd not once behind,
His soul was in that fearful chase—his spirit on the wind;—
A twilight shade came o'er the earth, and through the wood a moan,
Yet nothing did he see or hear, but that one deer alone!
XI.
The cypress groves he leaves behind, where, with impatient heart,Three goodly hours he watch'd that day, from all the rest apart;
The long pines gather round him now, and now the thicket stays,
Yet on, with headlong haste, he goes, through wild and rugged ways;—
The deer, still wiling as he wends, keeps ever in his sight,
Yet indirect his forward course, as careless still of flight;—
More furious grew that hunter then, to see his mocking pace,
And feel at last, his noble steed was failing in the race.
XII.
No warning sign like this he heeds, but with his oath in mind,Young Kedar, in that keen pursuit, is striving with the wind;
The rowel tears his charger's flanks until they glisten red,
The thong now smites his burning sides and now his aching head;
Yet docile still, in all his pain, though fainting with the chase,
He strives, that noble beast, to keep, unfailing, in the race;
The madness grows in Kedar's soul, and blinds his thought and will,
Such madness as must vex the heart of him that's doom'd to ill.
XIII.
And he that has no eye to see his weary charger's pain,As little heeds the baffling wood through which his feet must strain;
The giant pines have faded far—the knotted thicket shakes
Its purple berries round his brow at every bound he takes;
The swamp is nigh, the horse's hoofs in ooze are plashing fast,
God save him, if he mean to save—such chase can never last!
The river's edge is nigh, and dusk, its solemn shadows rise,
And what a heavy silence hangs and broods along the skies.
XIV.
Before him sleeps the sluggish swamp that never sees the day,And through its bosom, bounding on, the deer still keeps his way;
Another leap he gains the stream—another effort more—
And deeply in the charger's flanks, the rashing rowel tore;—
A sound is in young Kedar's ears—his hounds are close behind—
And 'tis old Lauto's cry that cheers upon that sudden wind;—
A warning cry that vainly seeks to drive the spell away,
And check the fiend that lies in wait and hungers for his prey.
XV.
Mad shouts from Kedar answer'd then old Lauto's kindly cry,—“Ha! ha! I have him now!” was still the hunter's wild reply;
He sinks—he can no farther run—he lies by yonder tree;—
Upon him, Cygnet!—he is ours—one goodly effort more,
By death and all the saints, he's mine!—ha! ha! our hunt is o'er!”
And still the noble steed obeys, and through the swamp he goes,—
The swamp is past, and, round his feet, the dark Che-che-see flows.
XVI.
The dark Che-che-see flows along, in tribute to the main,But stops not Kedar's rash pursuit—he spurs his steed again;
And breathing hard, the patient steed now takes the gloomy stream,
While roll'd the thunder cloud above, and sunk the westering gleam.
Old Lauto reach'd the river's edge, with dim and straining eye,
And something like a struggling steed, a moment did he spy;
But soon the waters closed above—he look'd beyond, and there
Still went, a failing shadow now, with easy pace, the deer!
Old Lauto is somewhat more learned in his terms than most of the drivers of the southern country; and, for the sake of his brethren, some little explanation may be given here. These are all terms of the chase in ancient English hunting; and are furnished to me, at second hand, from Gascoigne's “Commendation of the noble Arte of Venerie.” The slot is the print of a stag's foot upon the ground; entries are places through which deer have lately passed, by which their size is conjectured; frayings are the pillings of their horns; and a deer is said to “fray a head” when he rubs it against a tree to cause the outer coat to fall away in the season of renewal. These nice traits of the hunt, by which the hunter learns all that is desirable to know of the game he seeks, form, however, but a small number of those in the collection of the experienced in this “noble arte.”
Old Lauto is somewhat more learned in his terms than most of the drivers of the southern country; and, for the sake of his brethren, some little explanation may be given here. These are all terms of the chase in ancient English hunting; and are furnished to me, at second hand, from Gascoigne's “Commendation of the noble Arte of Venerie.” The slot is the print of a stag's foot upon the ground; entries are places through which deer have lately passed, by which their size is conjectured; frayings are the pillings of their horns; and a deer is said to “fray a head” when he rubs it against a tree to cause the outer coat to fall away in the season of renewal. These nice traits of the hunt, by which the hunter learns all that is desirable to know of the game he seeks, form, however, but a small number of those in the collection of the experienced in this “noble arte.”
Old Lauto is somewhat more learned in his terms than most of the drivers of the southern country; and, for the sake of his brethren, some little explanation may be given here. These are all terms of the chase in ancient English hunting; and are furnished to me, at second hand, from Gascoigne's “Commendation of the noble Arte of Venerie.” The slot is the print of a stag's foot upon the ground; entries are places through which deer have lately passed, by which their size is conjectured; frayings are the pillings of their horns; and a deer is said to “fray a head” when he rubs it against a tree to cause the outer coat to fall away in the season of renewal. These nice traits of the hunt, by which the hunter learns all that is desirable to know of the game he seeks, form, however, but a small number of those in the collection of the experienced in this “noble arte.”
| Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative | |