The improvisatrice; and other poems By L. E. L. [i.e. Landon] With embellishments. A new edition |
 |
 |
|
|
|
SONG OF THE HUNTER'S BRIDE. |
 | The improvisatrice; and other poems |  |
322
SONG OF THE HUNTER'S BRIDE.
Another day—another day
And yet he comes not nigh;
I look amid the dim blue hills,
Yet nothing meets mine eye.
And yet he comes not nigh;
I look amid the dim blue hills,
Yet nothing meets mine eye.
I hear the rush of mountain-streams
Upon the echoes borne;
I hear the singing of the birds,
But not my hunter's horn.
Upon the echoes borne;
I hear the singing of the birds,
But not my hunter's horn.
The eagle sails in darkness past,
The watchful chamois bounds;
But what I look for comes not near,—
My Ulric's hawk and hounds.
The watchful chamois bounds;
But what I look for comes not near,—
My Ulric's hawk and hounds.
323
Three times I thus have watched the snow
Grow crimson with the stain
The setting sun threw o'er the rock,
And I have watched in vain.
Grow crimson with the stain
The setting sun threw o'er the rock,
And I have watched in vain.
I love to see the graceful bow
Across his shoulder slung,—
I love to see the golden horn
Beside his baldric hung.
Across his shoulder slung,—
I love to see the golden horn
Beside his baldric hung.
I love his dark hounds, and I love
His falcon's sweeping flight;
I love to see his manly cheek
With mountain-colours bright.
His falcon's sweeping flight;
I love to see his manly cheek
With mountain-colours bright.
I've waited patiently, but now
Would that the chase were o'er:
Well may he love the hunter's toil,
But he should love me more.
Would that the chase were o'er:
Well may he love the hunter's toil,
But he should love me more.
324
Why stays he thus?—he would be here
If his love equalled mine;—
Methinks had I one fond caged dove,
I would not let it pine.
If his love equalled mine;—
Methinks had I one fond caged dove,
I would not let it pine.
But, hark! what are those ringing steps
That up the valley come?
I see his hounds,—I see himself,—
My Ulric, welcome home!
That up the valley come?
I see his hounds,—I see himself,—
My Ulric, welcome home!
| The improvisatrice; and other poems | |