 | The Comrades |  |
“Hilliho, hilliho!”—How the clear echoes go
Through the pine-woods, and bring back the shout, “Hilliho!”
Through the pine-woods, and bring back the shout, “Hilliho!”
'Tis the hunter halloos, and he clutches his gun
Where the swamp's eerie waters have shrunk in the sun.
Where the swamp's eerie waters have shrunk in the sun.
“Ho, comrades! be speedy, and come to me here!”—
What is it he sees that a hunter should fear?
What is it he sees that a hunter should fear?
The water-flags flutter their ribbons of green
Round the black peaty marge where the waters have been.
Round the black peaty marge where the waters have been.
What is it that lies in the flags—on its face—
And rivets the hunter's fixed gaze to the place?
And rivets the hunter's fixed gaze to the place?
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“God be thanked, you have come, friends!—The man!—he is dead!”
The water-flags flutter. With slow fearful tread
They trample the reeds where the dark horror lies—
Touch the corpse—and then turn the dead face to the skies.
The water-flags flutter. With slow fearful tread
They trample the reeds where the dark horror lies—
Touch the corpse—and then turn the dead face to the skies.
“God have mercy! 'tis Kozma the Smith! He was missed
In the Spring.—How he clutches those weeds in his fist!”
In the Spring.—How he clutches those weeds in his fist!”
| The Comrades | |