And even as he spake, on high
Arrows of sunlight pierced the sky. 
Bright streamed the rain.  O’er burning snow
From hill to hill a wondrous bow
Of colour and fire trembled in air,
Painting its heavenly beauty there. 
Wild flapped each fiend a batlike hood
Against that ’frighting light, and stood
Beating the windless rain, and then
Rose heavy and slow with cowering head,
Circled in company again,
And into darkness fled.

Marvellous sweet it was to hear
The waters gushing loud and clear;
Marvellous happy it was to be
Alone, and yet not solitary;
Oh, out of terror and dark to come
    In sight of home!

THE GAGE

“Lady Jane, O Lady Jane! 
Your hound hath broken bounds again,
  And chased my timorous deer, O;
    If him I see,
    That hour he’ll dee;
  My brakes shall be his bier, O.”

“Hoots! lord, speak not so proud to me! 
My hound, I trow, is fleet and free,
  He’s welcome to your deer, O;
    Shoot, shoot you may,
    He’ll gang his way,
  Your threats we nothing fear, O.”

He’s fetched him in, he’s laid him low,
Drips his lifeblood red and slow,
  Darkens his dreary eye, O;
   “Here is your beast,
    And now at least
  My herds in peace shall lie, O.”

“‘In peace!’ my lord, O mark me well! 
For what my jolly hound befell
  You shall sup twenty-fold, O! 
    For every tooth
    Of his, in sooth,
  A stag in pawn, I hold, O.

“Huntsman and horn, huntsman and horn,
Shall scour your heaths and coverts lorn,
  Braying ’em shrill and clear, O;
    But lone and still
    Shall lift each hill,
  Each valley wan and sere, O.

“Ride up you may, ride down you may,
Lonely or trooped, by night or day,
  My hound shall haunt you ever: 
    Bird, beast, and game
    Shall dread the same,
  The wild fish of your river.”

Her cheek burns angry as the rose,
Her eye with wrath and pity flows: 
  He gazes fierce and round, O—­
    “Dear Lord!” he says,
    “What loveliness
  To waste upon a hound, O.

“I’d give my stags, my hills and dales,
My stormcocks and my nightingales
  To have undone this deed, O;
    For deep beneath
    My heart is death
  Which for her love doth bleed, O.”

He wanders up, he wanders down,
On foot, a-horse, by night and noon: 
  His lands are bleak and drear, O;
    Forsook his dales
    Of nightingales,
  Forsook his moors of deer, O,

Forsook his heart, ah me! of mirth;
There’s nothing gladsome left on earth;
  All thoughts and dreams seem vain, O,
    Save where remote
    The moonbeams gloat,
  And sleeps the lovely Jane, O.

Until an even when lone he went,
Gnawing his beard in dreariment—­
  Lo! from a thicket hidden,
    Lovely as flower
    In April hour,
  Steps forth a form unbidden.