O, when the moon shines, and the dogs do howl,
Then, then is the cry of the horned owl !
Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight!
The owl hath his share of good:
If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark green wood!
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate;
They are each unto each a pride—
Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside !
So when the night falls, and dogs do howl,
Sing Ho! for the reign of the horned owl!
We know not alway who are kings by day,
But the king of the night is the bold brown owl. B. Cornwall
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor,
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud,
And now, as he approach'd a vassal's door,
'Bring forth another horse!' he cried aloud.
'Another horse!' that shout the vassal heard,
And saddled his best steed, a comely grey;
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;
The horse and horseman are a happy pair;
But though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.
A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
And as they galloped made the echoes roar ;
But horse and man are vanished, one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain ;
Blanche, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.
The Knight halloed, he cheered and chid them on With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern ; But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one, The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
This chase, it looks not like an earthly chase:
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.
The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy :
He neither cracked his whip nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned, And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet:
Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched ;
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched, The waters of the spring were trembling still.
And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Never had living man such joyful lot!)
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, And gazed, and gazed upon that darling spot.
And climbing up the hill, (it was at least
Four roods of sheer ascent), Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks, which the hunted beast
Had left imprinted in the grassy ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face and cried, 'Till now Such sight was never seen by human eyes; Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, Down to the very fountain where he lies.
'I'll build a pleasure house upon this spot,
And a small arbour made for rural joy;
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.
'A cunning artist will I have to frame
A basin for that fountain in the dell !
And they who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth shall call it Hart Leap Well.
'And, gallant stag, to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised;
Three several pillars, each a rough hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.
'And in the summer time, when days are long,
I will come hither with my paramour,
And with the dancers and the minstrels' song,
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
'Till the foundations of the mountains fail,
My mansion with its arbour shall endure;
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!'
Then home he went and left the Hart, stone-dead, With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring. Soon did the Knight perform what he had said; And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.
Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered,
A cup of stone received the living well;
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
And built a house for pleasure in the dell.
And near the fountain flowers of stature tall,
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,-
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
And thither, when the summer days were long,
Sir Walter led his wandering paramour,
And with the dancers and the minstrels' song,
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.
The moving accident is not my trade ;
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts;
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts.
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three aspens at three corners of a square ;
And one, not four yards distant, near a well.
What this imported I could ill divine;
And pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three pillars standing in a line,—
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill top.
The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head;
Half wasted the square mound of tawny green,
So that you might just say, as then I said,
'Here in old time the hand of man hath been.'
I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey;
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay.
I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,
Came up the hollow:-him I did accost,
And what this place might be I then inquired.
The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed ;
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