 | THE UNQUIET SLEEPER. Legends of New-England |  |
THE UNQUIET SLEEPER.
THE UNQUIET SLEEPER.
[Some fifty or sixty years since, an inhabitant of —, N. H. was found
dead at a little distance from his dwelling, which he left in the morning in
perfect health. There is a story prevalent among the people of the neighborhood,
that, on the evening of the day on which he was found dead, strange
cries are annually heard to issue from his grave! I have conversed with
some who really supposed they had heard them, in the dead of the night, rising
fearfully on the Autumn wind. They represented the sounds to be of a
most appalling and unearthly nature. Idle as this story may be, it is made the
subject of the following lines:]
The Hunter went forth with his dog and gun,
In the earliest glow of the golden sun;—
The trees of the forest bent over his way,
In the changeful colours of Autumn gay;
For a frost had fallen the night before,
On the quiet greenness which Nature wore.
A bitter frost!—for the night was chill,
And starry and dark, and the wind was still,
And so when the sun looked out on the hills,
On the stricken woods and the frosted rills,
The unvaried green of the landscape fled,
And a wild, rich robe was given instead.
We know not whither the Hunter went,
Or how the last of his days was spent;
In the earliest glow of the golden sun;—
The trees of the forest bent over his way,
In the changeful colours of Autumn gay;
For a frost had fallen the night before,
On the quiet greenness which Nature wore.
A bitter frost!—for the night was chill,
And starry and dark, and the wind was still,
And so when the sun looked out on the hills,
On the stricken woods and the frosted rills,
The unvaried green of the landscape fled,
And a wild, rich robe was given instead.
We know not whither the Hunter went,
Or how the last of his days was spent;
52
For the noon drew nigh—but he came not back,
Weary and faint from his forest track;
And his wife sat down to her frugal board,
Beside the empty seat of her lord.
And the day passed on, and the sun came down
To the hills of the west, like an angel's crown,
The shadows lengthened from wood and hill,
The mist crept up from the meadow-rill,
'Till the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled
All over the west, like a wave of gold!
Yet he came not back—though the stars gave forth
Their wizard light to the silent Earth;—
And his wife looked out from the lattice dim
In the earnest manner of fear for him;
And his fair-haired child on the door-stone stood
To welcome his father back from the wood!
He came not back!—yet they found him soon,
In the burning light of the morrow's noon,
In the fixed and visionless sleep of death,
Where the red leaves fell at the soft wind's breath;
And the dog whose step in the chase was fleet,
Crouched silent and sad at the Hunter's feet.
Weary and faint from his forest track;
And his wife sat down to her frugal board,
Beside the empty seat of her lord.
And the day passed on, and the sun came down
To the hills of the west, like an angel's crown,
The shadows lengthened from wood and hill,
The mist crept up from the meadow-rill,
'Till the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled
All over the west, like a wave of gold!
Yet he came not back—though the stars gave forth
Their wizard light to the silent Earth;—
And his wife looked out from the lattice dim
In the earnest manner of fear for him;
And his fair-haired child on the door-stone stood
To welcome his father back from the wood!
He came not back!—yet they found him soon,
In the burning light of the morrow's noon,
In the fixed and visionless sleep of death,
Where the red leaves fell at the soft wind's breath;
And the dog whose step in the chase was fleet,
Crouched silent and sad at the Hunter's feet.
53
He slept in death;—but his sleep was one,
Which his neighbors shuddered to look upon;
For his brow was black, and his open eye
Was red with the sign of agony:
And they thought, as they gazed on his features grim,
That an evil deed had been done on him.
They buried him where his fathers laid,
By the mossy mounds in the grave-yard shade,
Yet whispers of doubt passed over the dead,
And beldames muttered while prayers were said;
And the hand of the sexton shook as he pressed
The damp earth down on the Hunter's breast.
The seasons passed —and the Autumn rain
And the coloured forest returned again;
'Twas the very eve that the Hunter died,
The winds wail'd over the bare hill-side,
And the wreathing limbs of the forest shook
Their red leaves over the swollen brook.
There came a sound on the night-air then,
Like a spirit-shriek, to the homes of men,
And louder and shriller it rose again
Like the fearful cry of the mad with pain;
Which his neighbors shuddered to look upon;
For his brow was black, and his open eye
Was red with the sign of agony:
And they thought, as they gazed on his features grim,
That an evil deed had been done on him.
They buried him where his fathers laid,
By the mossy mounds in the grave-yard shade,
Yet whispers of doubt passed over the dead,
And beldames muttered while prayers were said;
And the hand of the sexton shook as he pressed
The damp earth down on the Hunter's breast.
The seasons passed —and the Autumn rain
And the coloured forest returned again;
'Twas the very eve that the Hunter died,
The winds wail'd over the bare hill-side,
And the wreathing limbs of the forest shook
Their red leaves over the swollen brook.
There came a sound on the night-air then,
Like a spirit-shriek, to the homes of men,
And louder and shriller it rose again
Like the fearful cry of the mad with pain;
54
And trembled alike the timid and brave,
For they knew that it came from the Hunter's grave!
And every year, when Autumn flings
Its beautiful robe on created things,
When Piscataqua's tide is turbid with rain
And Cocheco's woods are yellow again,
That cry is heard from the grave-yard earth,
Like the howl of a demon struggling forth!
For they knew that it came from the Hunter's grave!
And every year, when Autumn flings
Its beautiful robe on created things,
When Piscataqua's tide is turbid with rain
And Cocheco's woods are yellow again,
That cry is heard from the grave-yard earth,
Like the howl of a demon struggling forth!
| THE UNQUIET SLEEPER. Legends of New-England | |