A shady silence fills

    A SHADY silence fills, 
    At deep mid-eventide, 
    The rockless land of hills 

    Where two slow rivers glide. 
    The gnats beneath the gloom 

    Have failed in song, 
    Yet something through the combe 

    Comes like a sound along. 
    Though very far as yet, 

    Though no one is in sight. 
    Nor could a mortal set 
    Such alien echoes moving through the night. 

    'Tis not an hour to fear : 

    The sun is gone to bed, 
    The clouds from dusk are clear. 

    And there are overhead 
    But one or two large stars, 

    A bat or two. 
    Yet, hark ! a jangle mars 

    The peaceful mountain-view, 

    Like the far cry of hounds 
    Chasing a distant prey : 
    The chime of yelping sounds — 
    Oh, will it sink, or will it swell this way ? 

    It comes as comes the wind. 

    With little noise at first. 
    Exultantly combined, 

    Halloes and bays outburst 
    Upon that solitude 

    Where two streams meet : 
    Then in a scramble rude 

    Of shoulders, ears, and feet 
    The banhounds rush along, 

    And drive before their jaws 
    A wincing, naked throng 
    At flight from heated breath and thorny claws. 

    These are the souls that moan 

    Because upon their birth 
    God's water was not thrown ; 

    Or those who left the earth 
    Impenitent, unblessed. 
    Now all must fly. 
    While summer is at rest. 

    And, hunted furiously. 
    Be caught and bitten through 

    By dogs of faery-breed. 
    Sleek creatures, ebon-blue. 
    With lusting teeth and fore-ordained speed.  

    They scour the mountain side, 

    The upland township, then 
    Skirt the dark valley wide, 

    A cloud of dogs and men : 
    Behind, tall ladies race. 

    Each dressed in green. 
    Each with a smile-lit face 

    And presence of a queen, 
    Who breathe from steely lips. 

    Clap when a soul is caught. 
    And urge, with corded whips. 
    The stragglers of the pack to fiendish sport. 

    Their dogs have ceased to whine ; 

    The whining doth not cease. 
    One cannot watch the kine, 

    That chew their cud in peace ; 
    For still the lengthy curs. 

    It almost seems. 
    Phantasmal haunt the firs, 

    Haunt the two voiceless streams : 
    The sprites themselves have ghosts 

    That it is hard to lay, 
    And echoes walk in hosts 
    Long after the live echoes pass away.