The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
The poachers, with their nets, their dogs, and gun,
Directed truly by the farmer's son,
Then left the house, and hastened to the wood;
In silence there a while they list'ning stood,
Just when the hammer of the village bell
Twelve times heaved back, the midnight hour to tell.
Then Nature such an awful silence kept—
The faded leaves on lofty poplars slept;
The withered rushes on the heathy hill
Were scarcely moved—the tallest pines were still.
The waning moon a bloody vesture wore,
The only sounds the distant cataract's roar,
And deep-mouthed mastiffs, struggling in the chain,
Fierce barking to their echoed noise again.
This solemn scene no deep impression made
On hearts of flint, so hardened with the trade.
Then through the thick-grown briers they wandered slow,
Looking for pheasants on each lofty bough.
Ignotus swore they would not fire that night,
Till they beheld between them and the light
Ten glist'ning birds within the trees at rest;
For oft before they numbered many a nest,
And when the powder flashed, and shot had flown,
Dried sticks and leaves were all that tumbled down.
The number in the wood was quickly found;
They left them there, and ranged the open ground.
That night the poachers did their utmost strive
To catch the rich Theander hares alive.
Then swiftly round the fields the lurchers went,
Dogs which were silent on the strongest scent:
And when the flying hare was just before,
Their feet were heard, their panting, but no more.
But fatal for poor Stormer was the night,
Two lusty keepers saw him in the flight,
Levelled their pieces at the vital part,
And shot poor faithful Stormer through the heart;
While Phillis swift, the fleeting hare pursued,
And left her partner struggling in his blood.
The echoing woods conveyed the swift report,—
The poachers guessed the end of that night's sport.
Then quickly sounded Stormer's dying cries,—
Rage filled each breast, and blazed within their eyes;
Ignotus swore, “This luckless night I'll die,
“Ere Stormer, wounded, on the field shall lie;
“And should a legion of gamekeepers come,
“The shot of both my barrels shall fly home!”
Weak and more weak the cries of Stormer grew,
As to the fatal place the poachers flew;
And, when arrived, Ignotus raised his head,
Then heaved a sigh, and deeply swore, “He's dead!
“O friend, Desparo! such a dog ne'er went
“Across the fields, for swiftness or for scent.
“Poor Stormer! look, Desparo, where he bled!—
“How oft to us he has the hares conveyed!
“How oft have I, with exultation great,
“Stood list'ning to the singing of his feet;
“But now his turnings of the hares are o'er,
“And he must pant close at their heels no more!”
Directed truly by the farmer's son,
Then left the house, and hastened to the wood;
In silence there a while they list'ning stood,
Just when the hammer of the village bell
Twelve times heaved back, the midnight hour to tell.
Then Nature such an awful silence kept—
The faded leaves on lofty poplars slept;
The withered rushes on the heathy hill
Were scarcely moved—the tallest pines were still.
The waning moon a bloody vesture wore,
The only sounds the distant cataract's roar,
101
Fierce barking to their echoed noise again.
This solemn scene no deep impression made
On hearts of flint, so hardened with the trade.
Then through the thick-grown briers they wandered slow,
Looking for pheasants on each lofty bough.
Ignotus swore they would not fire that night,
Till they beheld between them and the light
Ten glist'ning birds within the trees at rest;
For oft before they numbered many a nest,
And when the powder flashed, and shot had flown,
Dried sticks and leaves were all that tumbled down.
The number in the wood was quickly found;
They left them there, and ranged the open ground.
That night the poachers did their utmost strive
To catch the rich Theander hares alive.
Then swiftly round the fields the lurchers went,
Dogs which were silent on the strongest scent:
And when the flying hare was just before,
Their feet were heard, their panting, but no more.
But fatal for poor Stormer was the night,
Two lusty keepers saw him in the flight,
Levelled their pieces at the vital part,
And shot poor faithful Stormer through the heart;
While Phillis swift, the fleeting hare pursued,
And left her partner struggling in his blood.
102
The poachers guessed the end of that night's sport.
Then quickly sounded Stormer's dying cries,—
Rage filled each breast, and blazed within their eyes;
Ignotus swore, “This luckless night I'll die,
“Ere Stormer, wounded, on the field shall lie;
“And should a legion of gamekeepers come,
“The shot of both my barrels shall fly home!”
Weak and more weak the cries of Stormer grew,
As to the fatal place the poachers flew;
And, when arrived, Ignotus raised his head,
Then heaved a sigh, and deeply swore, “He's dead!
“O friend, Desparo! such a dog ne'er went
“Across the fields, for swiftness or for scent.
“Poor Stormer! look, Desparo, where he bled!—
“How oft to us he has the hares conveyed!
“How oft have I, with exultation great,
“Stood list'ning to the singing of his feet;
“But now his turnings of the hares are o'er,
“And he must pant close at their heels no more!”
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |