  Speed on, speed on, good Master! The camp lies far away; We must cross the haunted valley Before the close of day. How the snow-blight came upon me I will tell you as I go,— The blight of the Shadow-hunter, Who walks the midnight snow. To the cold December heaven Came the pale moon and the stars, As the yellow sun was sinking Behind the purple bars. The snow was deeply drifted Upon the ridges drear, That lay for miles around me And the camps for which we steer. ’Twas silent on the hillside, And by the solemn wood, No sound of life or motion To break the solitude, Save the wailing of the moose-bird With a plaintive note and low, And the skating of the red leaf Upon the frozen snow. And said I, “Though dark is falling, And far the camp must be, Yet my heart it would be lightsome If I had but company.” And then I sang and shouted, Keeping measure, as I sped, To the harp-twang of the snow-shoe As it sprang beneath my tread. Nor far into the valley Had I dipped upon my way, When a dusky figure joined me, In a capuchon of gray, Bending upon the snow-shoes, With a long and limber stride; And I hailed the dusky stranger As we travelled side by side. But no token of communion Gave he by word or look, And the fear-chill fell upon me At the crossing of the brook. For I saw by the sickly moonlight As I followed, bending low, That the walking of the stranger Left no footmarks on the snow. Then the fear-chill gathered o’er me, Like a shroud around me cast, As I sank upon the snow-drift Where the Shadow-hunter passed. And the other trappers found me, Before the break of day, With my dark hair blanched and whitened As the snow in which I lay. But they spoke not as they raised me; For they knew that in the night I had seen the Shadow-hunter, And had withered in his blight. Sancta Maria speed us! The sun is falling low,— Before us lies the valley Of the Walker of the Snow! —Charles Dawson Shanly. |
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