Poems (Hinxman)/The Old Deerstalker
THE OLD DEERSTALKER.[1]
What, huntsman, propped upon thy rifle still,With' eyes fixed earthwards? leave the mountain side;Such musings better fit thy blazing hearth.The shadows of the night from peak to peakCome to thee frowning, through the hazy skyOne sad and watery planet shines alone.Hear how the dull brooks mutter, ill at ease,And with irreverent breath the gusty windsDisturb the white hairs on thy furrowed brow;Go down, go down, thou aged man, and leave These crags to meet the rising blast alone.But thee doth triumph in the vale await,Shouts from the young, and graspings of the handFrom thy grey brother-huntsmen, who shall joyIn thy success with spirits frank, undimmedBy cloud of envy; for what other handBut thine should bring those antlers down at last,That have for centuries twice-told possessedThe mountain tops, by rifle unattained,And which, despising meaner quarry, thouTill now hast followed from thy days of youth,Through darkness, or by noon-day stern and still,Or wrapped around with foldings of the mists?Nor seldom did the mountain storm surpriseAnd shut thee blinded, deafened, in its heart,While all the thunder pulses of its lifeThrobbed fierce about thee; well too, wert thou knownTo the far-sighted eagle, as she lookedDown from the mountain's battlements, and well To the wild raven, who scarce stirred her wingTo rise from the bare crag at thy approach;So went thy years by, coloured, filled, absorbedBy one pursuit, one patient, strong design,Which was to thee a passion, yea, a lifeWherein was folded all thy other life.
But not to mountain or to mountain storm,To eagle, or to raven on her crag,Wast thou so known as to that antlered king,That proud and ancient Being of the hills.Foes were ye, foes unto the death; but friendsIn some strange sort withal,—as two brave knights,In the intervals of mortal strife, will drinkBoth of one spring, and lay them down to sleepUnder the same green tree;—ye had becomeNeedful unto each other, and the lifeOf each had been, without each, tame and void.
How often, from his fortress peering down,What time the morning vapours cleared away, Has he looked boldly out for thee, and stoodMajestic, waiting thy approach below!Then turned, and tossing once his careless head,Dropped down the steep into some dark ravine,Upon whose floor the crowding mountains setTheir feet, reclining backwards in the air,And to whose depths himself and the white streamThat plunged from off the forehead of the rock,Alone brought tidings of the life without.How often hast thou felt thy heart beat thick,What time some sudden trace of him thou sought'stHas met thy heedful gaze!—whether the printLeft by his foot upon the oozy bankOf limpid shallows where he slaked his thirst;Or in some lonely dell the ferny bedMarked by late pressure of his slumbering limbs;Or haply stem of pine-tree, scarred and peeled,Showed thee his token; or, in headlong raceLeaping, as leap the streams, from crag to crag, Thy breath, thy being, launched on the strong wind,Thou hast rushed on to gain some vantage point,Meet his full front, and lift a surer aim.Or thou hast seen him when the cataract's brow,Made-crimson by the solemn sunset, gleamedAthwart the verdant gloom of bending trees;There, dark and tall against the glowing sky,He crowned the ascending vista, while the floodSeemed, vassal-like, beneath his feet to flow,He, spirit presiding of those floods and shades.And what if, night by night, the rising starsStill saw thee baffled from the wastes return?Yet not the less didst thou with cheerful heartSet by thy rifle in the accustomed nook,Still sanguine of the morrow; not the lessDidst thou arise while yet the earth was dark,And strain thy sight through the grey dawn to catchThose branching antlers, which less practised eyesHad deemed the naked boughs of distant fir. Now never, never more, those branching hornsMoving between the ridges of the rocksShall greet thee; never shalt thou feel againThe sudden start and breathlessness, nor joyWhich eager chase, or plot of wary skill,Have brought to thee so oft. Alas! old man,Hast thou not with the quenching of that lifePut thy life's sunshine out? Henceforth the hillsAre blank to thee, and thou with listless footShalt tread their swelling sides: day is becomeAimless, and night to thee will only bringDreams of past joy to burthen with a sighThy waking thought;—or will those dying eyesIn sleep again reproach thee, eloquent,And through their tears majestic, as the lookOf murdered king, turned on the ruthless handThat pierced his royal heart? for so they metThine own, when leaping downward from the cragUpon the heathery platform where he lay,A moment didst thou gaze upon thy work, Then, shrinking back, stoodst with averted headBreathless, until the heather and the fernWere shaken by the dying pangs no more.
*****
The thick drops of the mountain storm have fallen,And from the heather and the fern have washedTheir crimson stains; with fuller tones the brooksCali to each other through the listening night;The winds are quiet; far and wide o'er heavenDispersed in fleecy shreds the lightened clouds;While on the naked peaks and slumbering tarnsA silvery lustre from the moon releasedStreams suddenly; and falling rivulets shineLike snow-drifts cast upon the winter hills.
Thereat the pensive huntsman, roused, upliftsHis eyes that run along the mountain rangeInstinctively, to visit the hill-tops,Taught by familiar use of many years; Then round about him draws his plaid, and takesHis way with strides adown the rough descent.Anon the heights are left—the vacant heights—The mournful, moaning heights: he treads the vale,And sees the cheerful light of his own hearth,And from the door his grandsons come with looksThat question of his sport. To them he spake,And as he said, passed on: "Go to the hills,And fetch the deer that I have slain; it liesAmong the heather, by the 'Raven Crag.'"So went, upon the night that closed a dayOf triumph, and of life-long hope possessed,That old man to his couch with dreary heart.
1845.
- ↑ Suggested by an anecdote in Scrope's "Days of Deerstalking."