  There was no dog, no bell, no shout, The windmill’s sails were still. The gate swung creaking on its hasp, The pear splashed from the tree, In the rotting apple’s heart the wasp Was drunken drowsily. The grass upon the cart-wheel ruts Had made the trackways dim; The rabbits ate and hopped their scuts, They had no fear of him. The sunset reddened in the west; The distant depth of blue Stretched out and dimmed; to twiggy nest The rooks in clamour drew. The oakwood in his mail of brass Bowed his great crest and stood; The pine-tree saw St. Withiel pass, His great bole blushed like blood. Then tree and wood alike were dim, Yet still St. Withiel strode; The only noise to comfort him Were his footsteps on the road. The crimson in the west was smoked, The west wind heaped the wrack, Each tree seemed like a murderer cloaked To stab him in the back. Darkness and desolation came To dog his footsteps there; The dead leaves rustling called his name, The death-moth brushed his hair. The murmurings of the wind fell still; He stood and stared around: He was alone upon the hill, On devil-haunted ground. What was the whitish thing which stood In front, with one arm raised, Like death a-grinning in a hood? The saint stood still and gazed. “What are you?” said St. Withiel. “Speak!” Not any answer came But the night-wind making darkness bleak, And the leaves that called his name. A glow shone on the whitish thing, It neither stirred nor spoke: In spite of faith, a shuddering Made the good saint to choke. He struck the whiteness with his staff— It was a withered tree; An owl flew from it with a laugh, The darkness shook with glee. The darkness came all round him close And cackled in his ear; The midnight, full of life none knows, Was very full of fear. The darkness cackled in his heart That things of hell were there, That the startled rabbit played a part And the stoat’s leap did prepare— Prepare the stage of night for blood, And the mind of night for death, For a spirit trembling in the mud In an agony for breath. A terror came upon the saint, It stripped his spirit bare; He was sick body standing faint, Cold sweat and stiffened hair. He took his terror by the throat And stamped it underfoot; Then, far away, the death-horn’s note Quailed like a screech-owl’s hoot. Still far away that devil’s horn Its quavering death-note blew, But the saint could hear the crackling thorn That the hounds trod as they drew. “Lord, it is true,” St. Withiel moaned, “And the hunt is drawing near! Devils that Paradise disowned, They know that I am here. “And there, O God, a hound gives tongue, And great hounds quarter dim”— The saint’s hands to his body clung, He knew they came for him. Then close at hand the horn was loud, Like Peter’s cock of old For joy that Peter’s soul was cowed, And Jesus’ body sold. Then terribly the hounds in cry Gave answer to the horn; The saint in terror turned to fly Before his flesh was torn. After his body came the hounds, After the hounds the horse; Their running crackled with the sounds Of fire that runs in gorse. The saint’s breath failed, but still they came: The hunter cheered them on, Even as a wind that blows a flame In the vigil of St. John. And as St. Withiel’s terror grew, The crying of the pack Bayed nearer, as though terror drew Those grip teeth to his back. No hope was in his soul, no stay, Nothing but screaming will To save his terror-stricken clay Before the hounds could kill. The laid corn tripped, the bramble caught, He stumbled on the stones; The thorn that scratched him, to his thought, Was hell’s teeth at his bones. His legs seemed bound as in a dream, The wet earth held his feet, He screamed aloud as rabbits scream Before the stoat’s teeth meet. A black thing struck him on the brow, A blackness loomed and waved; It was a tree—he caught a bough And scrambled up it, saved. Saved for the moment, as he thought, He pressed against the bark: The hell-hounds missed the thing they sought, They quartered in the dark. |
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