Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/224

 Many seasons travelled he With his load of misery, Striving to forget his pain Which was clinging to his brain. Many seasons, many years, Numbered by his burning tears. Many nights his boding cry Scared the traveller passing by; But all in vain his wanderings were, He could not from his memory tear The things that had been—still were there.

One night—very, very weary, He sat in a hollow tree, With his thoughts—ah! all so dreary, For his only company. He heard something like a sound Of horse-hoofs through the forest bound, And full soon he was aware, A stranger and a lady fair Hid there, motionless and mute, From a husband's swift pursuit.

The cheated husband passed them by, The owl shrieked out, he scarce knew why; The spoiler looked, and by the light, Saw two wild eyes that, ghastly bright, Threw an unnatural glare around, The spot where he had shelter found. Starting, he woke from rapture's dream, For again he heard that boding scream, And "On—for danger and death are nigh When drinks mine ear yon dismal cry," He said, and fled through the forest fast; The owl had punished his foe at last, For he knew in the injured husband's foe, Him who had laid his own hopes low.

Sick grew the heart of the bird of night, And again and again he took to flight, But ever on his wandering wing He bore that load of suffering! Nought could cheer him! The pale moon, In whose soft beam he took delight, He looked at now reproachfully, That she could smile and shine, while he Had withered 'neath such cruel blight. He hooted her, but still she shone; And then away—alone! alone!