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 peak
Come to thee frowning, through the hazy sky
One sad and watery planet shines alone.
Hear how the dull brooks mutter, ill at ease,
And with irreverent breath the gusty winds
Disturb 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 hand
From thy grey brother-huntsmen, who shall joy
In thy success with spirits frank, undimmed
By cloud of envy; for what other hand
But thine should bring those antlers down at last,
That have for centuries twice-told possessed
The mountain tops, by rifle unattained,
And which, despising meaner quarry, thou
Till 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 surprise
And shut thee blinded, deafened, in its heart,
While all the thunder pulses of its life
Throbbed fierce about thee; well too, wert thou known
To the far-sighted eagle, as she looked
Down from the mountain's battlements, and well
To the wild raven, who scarce stirred her wing
To rise from the bare crag at thy approach;
So went thy years by, coloured, filled, absorbed
By one pursuit, one patient, strong design,
Which was to thee a passion, yea, a life
Wherein was folded all thy other life.
With' eyes fixed earthwards? leave the mountain side;
Such musings better fit thy blazing hearth.
The shadows of the night from peak to peak
Come to thee frowning, through the hazy sky
One sad and watery planet shines alone.
Hear how the dull brooks mutter, ill at ease,
And with irreverent breath the gusty winds
Disturb 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 hand
From thy grey brother-huntsmen, who shall joy
In thy success with spirits frank, undimmed
By cloud of envy; for what other hand
But thine should bring those antlers down at last,
That have for centuries twice-told possessed
The mountain tops, by rifle unattained,
And which, despising meaner quarry, thou
Till 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 surprise
And shut thee blinded, deafened, in its heart,
While all the thunder pulses of its life
Throbbed fierce about thee; well too, wert thou known
To the far-sighted eagle, as she looked
Down from the mountain's battlements, and well
To the wild raven, who scarce stirred her wing
To rise from the bare crag at thy approach;
So went thy years by, coloured, filled, absorbed
By one pursuit, one patient, strong design,
Which was to thee a passion, yea, a life
Wherein 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 friends
In some strange sort withal,—as two brave knights,
In the intervals of mortal strife, will drink
Both of one spring, and lay them down to sleep
Under the same green tree;—ye had become
Needful unto each other, and the life
Of each had been, without each, tame and void.
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 friends
In some strange sort withal,—as two brave knights,
In the intervals of mortal strife, will drink
Both of one spring, and lay them down to sleep
Under the same green tree;—ye had become
Needful unto each other, and the life
Of 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 stood
Majestic, 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 set
Their feet, reclining backwards in the air,
And to whose depths himself and the white stream
That 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'st
Has met thy heedful gaze!—whether the print
Left by his foot upon the oozy bank
Of limpid shallows where he slaked his thirst;
Or in some lonely dell the ferny bed
Marked by late pressure of his slumbering limbs;
Or haply stem of pine-tree, scarred and peeled,
Showed thee his token; or, in headlong race
Leaping, 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, gleamed
Athwart the verdant gloom of bending trees;
There, dark and tall against the glowing sky,
He crowned the ascending vista, while the flood
Seemed, vassal-like, beneath his feet to flow,
He, spirit presiding of those floods and shades.
And what if, night by night, the rising stars
Still saw thee baffled from the wastes return?
Yet not the less didst thou with cheerful heart
Set by thy rifle in the accustomed nook,
Still sanguine of the morrow; not the less
Didst thou arise while yet the earth was dark,
And strain thy sight through the grey dawn to catch
Those branching antlers, which less practised eyes
Had deemed the naked boughs of distant fir.
Now never, never more, those branching horns
Moving between the ridges of the rocks
Shall greet thee; never shalt thou feel again
The sudden start and breathlessness, nor joy
Which eager chase, or plot of wary skill,
Have brought to thee so oft. Alas! old man,
Hast thou not with the quenching of that life
Put thy life's sunshine out? Henceforth the hills
Are blank to thee, and thou with listless foot
Shalt tread their swelling sides: day is become
Aimless, and night to thee will only bring
Dreams of past joy to burthen with a sigh
Thy waking thought;—or will those dying eyes
In sleep again reproach thee, eloquent,
And through their tears majestic, as the look
Of murdered king, turned on the ruthless hand
That pierced his royal heart? for so they met
Thine own, when leaping downward from the crag
Upon the heathery platform where he lay,
A moment didst thou gaze upon thy work,
Then, shrinking back, stoodst with averted head
Breathless, until the heather and the fern
Were shaken by the dying pangs no more.
What time the morning vapours cleared away,
Has he looked boldly out for thee, and stood
Majestic, 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 set
Their feet, reclining backwards in the air,
And to whose depths himself and the white stream
That 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'st
Has met thy heedful gaze!—whether the print
Left by his foot upon the oozy bank
Of limpid shallows where he slaked his thirst;
Or in some lonely dell the ferny bed
Marked by late pressure of his slumbering limbs;
Or haply stem of pine-tree, scarred and peeled,
Showed thee his token; or, in headlong race
Leaping, 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, gleamed
Athwart the verdant gloom of bending trees;
There, dark and tall against the glowing sky,
He crowned the ascending vista, while the flood
Seemed, vassal-like, beneath his feet to flow,
He, spirit presiding of those floods and shades.
And what if, night by night, the rising stars
Still saw thee baffled from the wastes return?
Yet not the less didst thou with cheerful heart
Set by thy rifle in the accustomed nook,
Still sanguine of the morrow; not the less
Didst thou arise while yet the earth was dark,
And strain thy sight through the grey dawn to catch
Those branching antlers, which less practised eyes
Had deemed the naked boughs of distant fir.
Now never, never more, those branching horns
Moving between the ridges of the rocks
Shall greet thee; never shalt thou feel again
The sudden start and breathlessness, nor joy
Which eager chase, or plot of wary skill,
Have brought to thee so oft. Alas! old man,
Hast thou not with the quenching of that life
Put thy life's sunshine out? Henceforth the hills
Are blank to thee, and thou with listless foot
Shalt tread their swelling sides: day is become
Aimless, and night to thee will only bring
Dreams of past joy to burthen with a sigh
Thy waking thought;—or will those dying eyes
In sleep again reproach thee, eloquent,
And through their tears majestic, as the look
Of murdered king, turned on the ruthless hand
That pierced his royal heart? for so they met
Thine own, when leaping downward from the crag
Upon the heathery platform where he lay,
A moment didst thou gaze upon thy work,
Then, shrinking back, stoodst with averted head
Breathless, until the heather and the fern
Were shaken by the dying pangs no more.
*****
The thick drops of the mountain storm have fallen,
And from the heather and the fern have washed
Their crimson stains; with fuller tones the brooks
Cali to each other through the listening night;
The winds are quiet; far and wide o'er heaven
Dispersed in fleecy shreds the lightened clouds;
While on the naked peaks and slumbering tarns
A silvery lustre from the moon released
Streams suddenly; and falling rivulets shine
Like snow-drifts cast upon the winter hills.
And from the heather and the fern have washed
Their crimson stains; with fuller tones the brooks
Cali to each other through the listening night;
The winds are quiet; far and wide o'er heaven
Dispersed in fleecy shreds the lightened clouds;
While on the naked peaks and slumbering tarns
A silvery lustre from the moon released
Streams suddenly; and falling rivulets shine
Like snow-drifts cast upon the winter hills.
Thereat the pensive huntsman, roused, uplifts
His eyes that run along the mountain range
Instinctively, to visit the hill-tops,
Taught by familiar use of many years;
Then round about him draws his plaid, and takes
His 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 looks
That 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 lies
Among the heather, by the 'Raven Crag.'"
So went, upon the night that closed a day
Of triumph, and of life-long hope possessed,
That old man to his couch with dreary heart.
His eyes that run along the mountain range
Instinctively, to visit the hill-tops,
Taught by familiar use of many years;
Then round about him draws his plaid, and takes
His 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 looks
That 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 lies
Among the heather, by the 'Raven Crag.'"
So went, upon the night that closed a day
Of 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."