 | [Poems by Paulding in] Salmagundi |  |
263
THE HUNTER OF ALLEGHANY.
The Hunter is gone from his home in the vale,
To chase the wild deer on the mountain alone,
Though dark is the morning, and raw the rude gale,
That moans round the hill where the Hunter is gone.
To chase the wild deer on the mountain alone,
Though dark is the morning, and raw the rude gale,
That moans round the hill where the Hunter is gone.
It is lonely and desert, no hut to be seen,
No bed but the rude rock, no cloak but the skies;
And the torrent that foams its rough ridges between,
Oft stops the lone Hunter as homeward he hies.
No bed but the rude rock, no cloak but the skies;
And the torrent that foams its rough ridges between,
Oft stops the lone Hunter as homeward he hies.
O, cold blows the north wind, and fast falls the snow,
The tracks are all cover'd that guided his way;
'Tis dark in the depths of the valley below,
And the last teints of daylight are fading away.
The tracks are all cover'd that guided his way;
'Tis dark in the depths of the valley below,
And the last teints of daylight are fading away.
'Tis night—and around the lone hut in the vale,
The snows drift, and cumber the windows and door;
Cold, dreary, and dismal now moans the sad gale,
I fear me our Hunter will ne'er return more.
The snows drift, and cumber the windows and door;
Cold, dreary, and dismal now moans the sad gale,
I fear me our Hunter will ne'er return more.
And so fears the good wife, that sits by the fire,
A listening the blast, as it rattles the door,
And draws to the chimney still nigher and nigher,
She fears that her good man will ne'er come back more.
A listening the blast, as it rattles the door,
And draws to the chimney still nigher and nigher,
She fears that her good man will ne'er come back more.
'Tis midnight—and yet blows the whirlwind of snow,
And louder the blast moans adown the lone vale,
And still sits the good wife, all wakeful with wo,
To think of the Hunter that bides the sharp gale.
And louder the blast moans adown the lone vale,
And still sits the good wife, all wakeful with wo,
To think of the Hunter that bides the sharp gale.
Is that his loud horn that resounds on the hill?
Or is it his voice moaning hollow and low?
'Tis only the fiend of the storm howling shrill,
And chiding his train through the mountains of snow.
Or is it his voice moaning hollow and low?
'Tis only the fiend of the storm howling shrill,
And chiding his train through the mountains of snow.
264
There's a noise at the door—'tis the Hunter is come!
She runs to the door, but no Hunter is there—
'Tis his dog, who through snow-drifts has found his way home,
While his master is freezing, God only knows where.
She runs to the door, but no Hunter is there—
'Tis his dog, who through snow-drifts has found his way home,
While his master is freezing, God only knows where.
He looks in the wife's face, he runs to the door,
And wistfully whining in accents of wo,
Invites her to follow, while he tracks before—
She wishes to follow, yet trembles to go.
And wistfully whining in accents of wo,
Invites her to follow, while he tracks before—
She wishes to follow, yet trembles to go.
But perhaps 'tis not far, and there's time yet to save
The poor wand'ring pilgrim that's lost in the hills,
For a lover, a mistress such perils would brave,
Shall a wife then decline what a mistress fulfils?
The poor wand'ring pilgrim that's lost in the hills,
For a lover, a mistress such perils would brave,
Shall a wife then decline what a mistress fulfils?
They have brav'd the dark night, and the keen pelting wind;
Cold, cold blew the blast, and the snow fell amain,
But none know if the Hunter they ever did find,
Nor wife, dog, or Hunter, e'er came home again.
Cold, cold blew the blast, and the snow fell amain,
But none know if the Hunter they ever did find,
Nor wife, dog, or Hunter, e'er came home again.
The hut is deserted, yet none e'er ask why
For few ever visit that valley so lone;
And those who may chance the log ruin to spy,
Think its tenants are all to the west country gone.
For few ever visit that valley so lone;
And those who may chance the log ruin to spy,
Think its tenants are all to the west country gone.
But one day or other, when years are past by,
Some Huntsman may traverse that mountain so drear,
And shrinking with horror, perchance will descry
Three skeletons whitening some precipice near.
Some Huntsman may traverse that mountain so drear,
And shrinking with horror, perchance will descry
Three skeletons whitening some precipice near.
And ponder, as sadly he leans on his gun,
And feels his hair bristle with horrible fear,
What ruffian, or wild beast, this foul deed has done,
Then turn him away, and pursue the wild deer.
And feels his hair bristle with horrible fear,
What ruffian, or wild beast, this foul deed has done,
Then turn him away, and pursue the wild deer.
| [Poems by Paulding in] Salmagundi | |