 | Ballads and Other Poems |  |
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THE HUNTER'S LINN.
The hound is sitting by the stone,
The large black hound, and moaning ever;
And looking down, with wistful eyes,
Into the deep and lonesome river.
The large black hound, and moaning ever;
And looking down, with wistful eyes,
Into the deep and lonesome river.
Afar he looks, and, 'mong the hills,
The castle's old grey tower he spyeth;
Yet human form he seeth none,
O'er all the moor that round him lieth.
The castle's old grey tower he spyeth;
Yet human form he seeth none,
O'er all the moor that round him lieth.
The hound he moaneth bitterly;
The uneasy hound he moaneth ever;
And now he runneth up and down,
And now he yelleth to the river.
The uneasy hound he moaneth ever;
And now he runneth up and down,
And now he yelleth to the river.
Unto the shepherd on the hills
Comes up the lonely creature's sorrow,
And troubleth sore the old man's heart,
Among his flocks, the long day thorough.
Comes up the lonely creature's sorrow,
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Among his flocks, the long day thorough.
The afternoon grows dark betime,
The night winds, ere the night, are blowing,
And cold grey mists from out the fen
Along the forest-moor are going.
The night winds, ere the night, are blowing,
And cold grey mists from out the fen
Along the forest-moor are going.
The castle looketh dark without,
Within, the rooms are cold and dreary;
The chill light from the window fades;
The fire it burneth all uncheery.
Within, the rooms are cold and dreary;
The chill light from the window fades;
The fire it burneth all uncheery.
With meek hands crossed, beside the hearth
The pale and anxious mother sitteth:
And now she listens to the bat
That screaming round the window flitteth;
The pale and anxious mother sitteth:
And now she listens to the bat
That screaming round the window flitteth;
And now she listens to the winds
That come with moaning and with sighing;
And now unto the doleful owls
Calling afar and then replying.
That come with moaning and with sighing;
And now unto the doleful owls
Calling afar and then replying.
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And now she paces through the room,
And “He will come anon!” she sayeth;
And then she stirs the sleeping fire,
Sore marvelling why he thus delayeth.
And “He will come anon!” she sayeth;
And then she stirs the sleeping fire,
Sore marvelling why he thus delayeth.
Unto the window now she goes,
And looks into the evening chilly;
She sees the misty moors afar,
And sighs, “Why cometh not my Willie?”
And looks into the evening chilly;
She sees the misty moors afar,
And sighs, “Why cometh not my Willie?”
The gusty winds wail round about;
The damps of evening make her shiver,
And, in the pauses of the wind,
She hears the rushing of the river.
The damps of evening make her shiver,
And, in the pauses of the wind,
She hears the rushing of the river.
“Why cometh not my Willie home?
Why comes he not?” the mother crieth;
“The winds wail dismally to-night,
And on the moors the grey fog lieth.”
Why comes he not?” the mother crieth;
“The winds wail dismally to-night,
And on the moors the grey fog lieth.”
She listens to a sound, that comes
She knows not whence, of sorrow telling;
She listens to the large black hound,
That on the river side is yelling.
She knows not whence, of sorrow telling;
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That on the river side is yelling.
The hound he sitteth by the stone;
The uneasy hound he moaneth ever;
The homeward shepherd sees him there,
Beside the deep and lonesome river.
The uneasy hound he moaneth ever;
The homeward shepherd sees him there,
Beside the deep and lonesome river.
The mother listens eagerly,
The voice is as a doleful omen;
She shuts the casement, speaking low—
“It groweth late; he must be coming!
The voice is as a doleful omen;
She shuts the casement, speaking low—
“It groweth late; he must be coming!
“Rise up, my women, every one,
And make the house so light and cheery;
My Willie cometh from the moors,
Home cometh he all wet and weary.”
And make the house so light and cheery;
My Willie cometh from the moors,
Home cometh he all wet and weary.”
The hound he moaneth bitterly,
The moaning hound he ceaseth never,
He looks into the shepherd's face,
Then down into the darksome river.
The moaning hound he ceaseth never,
He looks into the shepherd's face,
Then down into the darksome river.
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The shepherd's heart is troubled sore,
Is troubled sore with woe and wonder,
And down into the linn he looks,
That lies the broken granite under.
Is troubled sore with woe and wonder,
And down into the linn he looks,
That lies the broken granite under.
He looks into the dark deep pool,
Within his soul new terror waking;
The hound sends forth a hollow moan,
As if his very heart were breaking.
Within his soul new terror waking;
The hound sends forth a hollow moan,
As if his very heart were breaking.
The shepherd dimly sees a cloak,
He dimly sees a floating feather,
And farther down a broken bough,
And broken twigs of crimson heather.
He dimly sees a floating feather,
And farther down a broken bough,
And broken twigs of crimson heather.
The hound clings to the granite crags,
As o'er the deep dark pool he bendeth,
And piteous cries that will not cease
Into the darksome linn he sendeth.
As o'er the deep dark pool he bendeth,
And piteous cries that will not cease
Into the darksome linn he sendeth.
Upon his staff the shepherd leans,
And for a little space doth ponder,
He looks all round, 't is drear and dim,
Save in the lit-up castle yonder.
And for a little space doth ponder,
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Save in the lit-up castle yonder.
“Ah!” saith the old man, mournfully,
And tears adown his cheeks are falling,
“My lady watcheth for her son,
The hound is for his master calling!”
And tears adown his cheeks are falling,
“My lady watcheth for her son,
The hound is for his master calling!”
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