The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme The witch of Shiloh, the last of the Wampanoags, the gentle earl, the enchanted voyage |
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The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme | ||
62
VIII
Our hero, careful lest a ball
Might find him from the other shore,
Descended creeping, reached the yawl
And laid his length upon its floor.
Recumbent there, with visage darkened,
His heavy pistols cocked for strife,
His breath suppressed, he slyly harkened
And peeped for signs of hostile life.
Might find him from the other shore,
Descended creeping, reached the yawl
And laid his length upon its floor.
Recumbent there, with visage darkened,
His heavy pistols cocked for strife,
His breath suppressed, he slyly harkened
And peeped for signs of hostile life.
Betimes a drowsy drone he heard
Of plunging waters, far below;
Or was it but a thrumming bird
In dozing terror? Who can know?
For hours he listened thus; and then
Perhaps he slept; he never told.
There come awearied moments when
The sentry nods, though good as gold.
Of plunging waters, far below;
Or was it but a thrumming bird
In dozing terror? Who can know?
For hours he listened thus; and then
Perhaps he slept; he never told.
There come awearied moments when
The sentry nods, though good as gold.
At last he roused himself—perchance
From revery—perchance from dream;
He raised his head and threw a glance
About him; then across the stream.
Diana, hunting high in night,
Sent arrows through the forest ranks
That feathered half the flood with light
And filigreed the curving banks;
And there, amid the elfin sheen,
He spied an Indian maiden kneel,
Who plied a paddle, dimly seen,
And urged along a spectral keel.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again;
He thought to see her fade away;
But soon a glorious argent vein
Of moonlight showed her clear as day.
From revery—perchance from dream;
He raised his head and threw a glance
About him; then across the stream.
Diana, hunting high in night,
Sent arrows through the forest ranks
That feathered half the flood with light
And filigreed the curving banks;
And there, amid the elfin sheen,
He spied an Indian maiden kneel,
Who plied a paddle, dimly seen,
63
He rubbed his eyes and looked again;
He thought to see her fade away;
But soon a glorious argent vein
Of moonlight showed her clear as day.
The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme | ||