To an Echo on the Banks of the Hunter’

“I’was night—and where a watery sound
    Came moaning up the Flat,
Six rude and bearded stockmen round
    Their blazing hut-fire sat,
And laughed as on some starting hound
    The cracking fuel spat.

And merrier still the log-fire cracks
    As night the darker falls,
While not a noisy tongue there lacks
    To tell of drunken brawls,
But most of battle with the Blacks
    Some bloody tale appals.

Amongst them then Ned Connor spoke,
    And up his form he drew:—
What is there in an open stroke
    To boast of? You but slew
Those who’d have done, each hell-black one,
    The same or worse to you.

But lost among the hills, one day,
    Which then was well nigh shut,
I met a Black upon my way,
    And thus the matter put
Unto him:—“See! this knife’s for thee,
    Come, guide me to my hut.”

His savage eyes grew huge with joy
    As on the prize they bent,
And leading, even like a boy
    He capered as he went:
But think you, men, to give the toy
    Ned Connor ever meant?
An hour had brought us many a mile
    And then, as closed the day,
The savage pointed with a smile,
    To where my Station lay:
“There! give to me the knife,” said he,
    “And let me go my way.”

[ never meant that he should touch
    The thing, as I have said,
And when he stretched his hand to clutch,
    A thought came in my head:
I raised my gun, as though in fun—
    I fired and he was dead!

The ruffian laughed in his pitiless mood
    When ended thus his tale,
But all the rest though men of blood,
    With horror seemed to quail,
And saw though he stood boastfully
    That Connor too was pale:

For through the moaning of the trees
    He seemed to hear the sound
Of his own laughter in the breeze
    Keep roaming out till drowned
In wild and bitter mockeries
    Up-answering from the ground.

Now what to hear had made them fear,
    Had also made them dry:
But strange! the water-pail that late
    Brimm’d in the corner nigh
Was empty! In amazement great
    There’s not a drop, they cry!

Their thirst grew bitter and they said
    Come, this will never do!
It is your turn for water, Ned,
    Then why not go? He drew
Full hard his breath and from his head
    There dripped a sudden dew.
But shaming to be taxed with fear,
    He seized the pail and said
What care I Though the night be drear,
    Who ever saw the dead?
And if I fail to fill this pail,
    The devil shall, instead.

He sallied forth. A sudden blast
    Went sobbing by the door,
Through which they heard his footsteps fast
    Recede—and when no more
They heard them, round the fire aghast
    They gathered as before.

“I would not go alone to-night
    The way that he is gone,”
Said one, “for all the gold my sight
    Hath ever fallen upon:
To slay that creature was not right,
    I’d say’t were he my son!”

And now impatient all and wild
    They wondered at his stay,
Till one outspake: “A weanling child
    Could not make more delay:
If longer slack in coming back,
    He’ll bring with him the day.”

But while they thus were wondering—hark!
    They hear a frantic shriek,
Then nearing footsteps through the dark,
    Come waywardly and weak:
And as the dogs did howl and bark,
    They stared but feared to speak.

Against the door, that to had swung,
    One rushed then and ’twas split;
’Twas Connor! who amid them sprung
    And fell into a fit:
And long that night in ghastly plight,
    He struggled there in it.
And when his sense returned—again
    The sun was rising bright,
But shuddering as in mental pain
    He turned him from the light,
And pointing, said—“To bed! to bed!
    For Death is in my sight!”

They bore him to his bed straightway,
    Those horror-stricken men,
And questioned him as there he lay,
    Of what had met his ken:
Within himself he seemed to pray,
    And thus bespake them then:—

“I went (you heard), with impious boast
    For water to the brook,
But when the threshold I had crost,
    All strength my heart forsook; &,
a. Each forward step seemed fate—but most
    I feared behind to look.

Long murky clouds were hurrying fast
    Across the starless sky,
Strange sounds came drowning up the blast
    That piped by fits so high:
A winding gleam, and lo! the stream
    Went wildly moaning by.

I knew not why, but it struck mine eye
    With a dull damp sense of awe,
And bankward densely crawling by,
    Crude Shapes methought I saw!
But I must not back, I said, alack!
    But down at once and draw.

Now standing at the water’s edge,
    Mine eyes thereon I threw,
And, lo! distinctly through the sedge,
    What is it there I view?—
Not mine own shadow from the ledge,
    But him!—the Black I slew!
’Twas no delusion! There he stood
    Within the gleaming brook,
The same as when I shed his blood,
    His stature and his look,
Even to the dread accusing shade
    His dying aspect. took!

With backward bound I started round
    And up the bank did flee,
But, ah! as swiftly in my track
    Bare footfalls seemed to be!
Step, step, for mine, close at my back
    I heard, but nought could see!

It was a horrible thing to hear
    Behind me still the sound
I could not bear to have it there,
    And desperate, faced me round,
When through the dark a sudden spark
    Shot upward from the ground!

Staggered as with a stunning stroke
    I could not turn again,
But saw whence came the spark, a smoke
    Arise—I saw it plain,
And from it an earthy odour broke
    That bit me to the brain!

At first I saw it bloating out
    In size not o’er a span,
Then as it slowly wreathed about
    To heighten it began,
Until it took in bulk and look
    The stature of a man!

No stir was near—I might but hear
    The beating of my blood
And there within my reach almost,
    The horrid Phantom stood!
I stared till fear in fear was lost
    So awful was my mood.
I spoke—I know not what—and lo!
    The diabolic birth
’Gan wildly writhing to and fro
    As if in ghostly mirth
And then against me rushing so,
    It dashed me to the earth!

Mine eyes flashed out with sputtering flame—
    The ground kept swimming fast—
And roaming round about there came
    Wild laughter in the blast!
A moment—and then all was tame,
    Forgotten, painless, past.

At length my brain began to swim
    As consciousness regrew,
But when with eyeballs strained and dim,
    I looked again—I knew
A form stood o’er me, it was him,—;
    The savage that I slew!

I shrieked, and bounding to my feet,
    I fled, but as before,
Bare footsteps tracked me beat for beat
    With mine, even to the door:
What then befel I cannot tell—
    I know of nothing more!”

He ceased and turning in his bed,
    Aloud for mercy cried,
    And for three days and nights, ’tis said,
    He uttered nought beside;
    When raving out with sudden dread,
    The haunted Murderer died.

    The fearful men around him then,
    Each one of them did say,
    It was a damned wrong in Ned
    The savage so to slay,
    And where he said he saw the dead,
    They buried him next day.
Long ere I knew thee—years of loveless days—
    A Shape would gather from my dreams and pour
The soul-sweet influence of its gentle gaze
    Into my being, thrilling it to the core,
Then would I wake, with lonely heart to pine
For that nocturnal image:—it was thine!

Thine—for though long with a fond moody heed
    I sought to match it with the beauteous creatures
I met in the world’s ways, ’twas but to bleed
    With disappointment; for all forms, all features,
Yet left it void of living counterpart—
The shadowy Mistress of my yearning heart.
Thine—for when first seen thou didst seem to me
    A being known yet beautifully new!
Thus, warranting some sage’s theory,
    Amid Heaven’s sisterhoods, into shining view
Is drawn a long-conjectured star, his name
To fold forever in its virgin flame!

But I forget! Far, far away from thee
    Behold, I wander ’mid primeval woods
Where but all savage things are wont to be,
    Mixing fond questionings with Solitude’s
Wild cadences, as through dim glades by fits
Yet dreaming her ancient dream, illusively she flits.

And now the Hunter, with a swollen speed
    Rushes in thunder at my feet, but wears
A softened charm in that it seems to lead
    My willing vision whether Memory rears
Thy rural bower by the stream that erst
With murmurous heed my infant passion nurst,

And with the river’s torture, oft a tone
    Of that far brook seems blending, accents too
Of the dear voice there heard—that voice alone
    Unparagoned of mortal sound, like dew
Honeyed with manna, dropping near me seems,
As oft I listen—lost in Memory’s dreams!
But vain these musings! Though my spirit’s bride
    Thou knew’st not of my love! Though all my days
‘To come must be inevitably dyed
    Or bright or dark through thee—this missive says
Thy lot in life is cast, that thou wilt be
Another’s ere I look again on thee!

The bardic doom is on me! Poets make
    Beauty immortal and yet luckless miss
The charms they sing,—martyrs at Fortune’s stake!
    As though their soul’s capacity for bliss
Might else give Earth too much of Heaven and kill
The want that strengthens them for prowess still.

Wreathe then the Poet’s brows with blossoms bright!
    Let waters ever, and the sway of trees
Sound through his thoughts, as the renewed delight
    Of Even flows around him in a breeze
Laden with dying voices—till the night
    Enroof him with her starry mysteries!
For Nature only (fated at his birth!)
May minister unto his love on Karth.