Cornish Saints & Sinners

by J. Henry Harris

The Black hunter's horn rang clear, rang clear,
And the pack gave music, yap, yap, yap;
Gehenna and Sheöl led straight to the Pool,
Followed hot-foot by Blackman's whelp.
The wonderful pack runs strong in the night
To hunt a poor soul in pain.
A soul in pain, a notable soul;
The soul of Tregeagle, a deathless soul,
Flies from the Pool with a shriek, a shriek;
In terror there flies with a shriek
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.

The Black hunter's horn rings clear, rings clear,
And the hungry pack, the hellish pack,
Gehenna and Sheöl and Blackman's whelp,
Scent the poor soul now from the Pool,
Free from the pool on the snow-clad moor,
Free to escape its terrible doom.
Tally-ho! A soul in pain, in pain!
The dark soul of Tregeagle in pain,
Flies in black night across the moor,
The desolate moor in snow and ice,
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.

Runs the Hunter's horse with hoofs on fire,
The terrible, howling pack breathe fire,
And yap, yap, yap, along the white track,
Follow the poor soul in pain, in pain—
Race the poor soul in terror and pain—
Gehenna still leading the pack.
To a light! a light! the hunted soul,
The soul of Tregeagle in pain,
Flies to a light on a rock, a rock—
Flies to a light on Roche Rock,
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.

The scent, the fiendish scent, lies well,
On snow-white moor and frosted fern;
The keen wind blows it back to the pack,
The Black hunter's pack with eyes of fire—
Gehenna and Sheöl and Blackman's whelp,
Yap, yap, yap! Hunting a soul in pain.
Mile upon mile, o'er cairn and crag,
O'er perilous ways in combe and hill;
In sight of dead spectres abroad to-night
Flies the scared soul in pitiless pain,
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.

A holy saint, a saint prays there:
He hears the cry of a soul in pain;
He knows the bark of the hellish pack,
Gehenna and Sheöl and Blackman's whelp
Hunting a soul in pain, in pain,
Hunting a soul in deathless pain.
The window is shut: no room, no room!
Gehenna and Sheöl and Blackman's whelp
Breathe liquid fire with nostrils wide;
The saint prays lusty for himself,
Not for Tregeagle in pain.

Back o'er the moor, the frozen moor,
Flies the curst soul to Dozmary Pool.
With gleaming fangs and eyes aflame,
The pack, the pack, the hellish pack
Race by his side, yap, yap, yap—
Race by the side of the soul in pain.
Back to the Pool, the frozen pool,
The burning soul, the notable soul,
Flies to its prison of tears, hot tears,
Flies to its cursed prison of tears,
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.

And the pack, the loathsome, hellish pack,
Gehenna and Sheöl and Blackman's whelp,
Were baulked of their prey this time, this time.
But still they wait on the lonesome moor,
To hunt the poor soul in pain, in pain—
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.

There is a lot of moorland about here, and a Cornish moor, with its poor soil and windswept bracken, turning brown and golden before its time, its gallant heaths struggling amongst the rocks, or blooming grandly in sheltered patches, tells its tale of hardship. There is not much to be seen generally but rough ponies running wild, and rabbits and wild birds innumerable. A moor is not much of a place for a lonely man with sad indigestion bad upon him.

This was our first real experience of a Cornish moor, and we walked along gaily enough for a time; but conversation languished, for each was impressed in his own way by the immense void upon the earth. Whichever way we looked, there was nothing beyond speaking of limit to rolling moorland—the hills were only gaunt sentinels to a greater silence. To come from a city with millions treading on the heels of millions, and people in despair of getting breathing room, and then to find one's self upon a moor, is to experience a new sensation. Guy suddenly sent up a shout, sprinted a hundred yards and back again, and then wanted the Bookworm to "tuck in his tup'ny"—the loneliness had got upon his nerves, but he felt better after this performance. The story of Tregeagle hunted by hell-hounds had its origin in a locality more desolate than this, and the Bookworm said he was convinced that locality had much to do with the making and colouring of myths.

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