THE HUNTER'S MOON.

By Mathilde Blind

The Hunter's Moon rides high,

High o'er the close-cropped plain;

Across the desert sky

The herded clouds amain

Scamper tumultuously,

Chased by the hounding wind

That yelps behind.

The clamorous hunt is done,

Warm-housed the kennelled pack;

One huntsman rides alone

With dangling bridle slack;

He wakes a hollow tone,

Far echoing to his horn

In clefts forlorn.

The Hunter's Moon rides low,

Her course is nearly sped.

Where is the panting roe?

Where hath the wild deer fled?

Hunter and hunted now

Lie in oblivion deep:

Dead or asleep.