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.
