A WINTER SONG.

Came the dread Archer up yonder lawn —

Night is the time for the old to die —

But woe for an arrow that smote the fawn,

When the hind that was sick unscathed went by.

Father lay moaning, “Her fault was sore

( Night is the time when the old must die ),

Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more,

For heart is failing: the end is nigh.”

“Daughter, my daughter, my girl,” I cried

( Night is the time for the old to die ),

“Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide” —

Dark was the welkin and wild the sky.

Heavily plunged from the roof the snow —

( Night is the time when the old will die ),

She answered, “My mother,‘ tis well, I go.”

Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew high.

First at his head, and last at his feet

( Night is the time when the old should die ),

Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet,

None else that loved him, none else were nigh.

I wept in the night as the desolate weep

( Night is the time for the old to die ),

Cometh my daughter? the drifts are deep,

Across the cold hollows how white they lie.

I sought her afar through the spectral trees

( Night is the time when the old must die ),

The fells were all muffled, the floods did freeze,

And a wrathful moon hung red in the sky.

By night I found her where pent waves steal

( Night is the time when the old should die ),

But she lay stiff by the locked mill-wheel,

And the old stars lived in their homes on high.