A shady silence fills

A shady silence fills,
At deep mid-eventide,
The rockless land of hills
Where two slow rivers glide.
The gnats beneath the gloom
Have failed in song,
Yet something through the combe
Comes like a sound along.
Though very far as yet,
Though no one is in sight.
Nor could a mortal set
Such alien echoes moving through the night.

'Tis not an hour to fear:
The sun is gone to bed,
The clouds from dusk are clear.
And there are overhead
But one or two large stars,
A bat or two.
Yet, hark! a jangle mars
The peaceful mountain-view,
Like the far cry of hounds
Chasing a distant prey:
The chime of yelping sounds —
Oh, will it sink, or will it swell this way?

It comes as comes the wind.
With little noise at first.
Exultantly combined,
Halloes and bays outburst
Upon that solitude
Where two streams meet:
Then in a scramble rude
Of shoulders, ears, and feet
The banhounds rush along,
And drive before their jaws
A wincing, naked throng
At flight from heated breath and thorny claws.

These are the souls that moan
Because upon their birth
God's water was not thrown;
Or those who left the earth
Impenitent, unblessed.
Now all must fly.
While summer is at rest.
And, hunted furiously.
Be caught and bitten through
By dogs of faery-breed.
Sleek creatures, ebon-blue.
With lusting teeth and fore-ordained speed.

They scour the mountain side,
The upland township, then
Skirt the dark valley wide,
A cloud of dogs and men:
Behind, tall ladies race.
Each dressed in green.
Each with a smile-lit face
And presence of a queen,
Who breathe from steely lips.
Clap when a soul is caught.
And urge, with corded whips.
The stragglers of the pack to fiendish sport.

Their dogs have ceased to whine;
The whining doth not cease.
One cannot watch the kine,
That chew their cud in peace;
For still the lengthy curs.
It almost seems.
Phantasmal haunt the firs,
Haunt the two voiceless streams:
The sprites themselves have ghosts
That it is hard to lay,
And echoes walk in hosts
Long after the live echoes pass away.