DEATH AND THE HUNTER.

217

Far, far away was the maid of truth,Who fondly loved that hunter youth ;She gazed on the radiant star of night,

She thought on her lover, and chid his stay,She watched the clouds in their lofty flight

As they crossed the moon in dim array;Then sadly told the lingering hour,As the clock struck slow from the village tower!

Ah! little did she think that moon,

To the night-wearied pilgrim so rich a boon—

On the gore-clotted locks of her lover were flinging

Its pitying beam, as cold he lay,

With death-glazed eye by his " gallant gray,"

While round him the shadowy woods were ringing

With the dirge of the screech-owl, whose frightful

tonesWere mingled with the dying courser's groans !

J. F. P.