The Troller, I ween, was a fearless wight,
And, as legends tell, could hear
The night winds rave, in the Knave Knoll cave,[471]
Withouten a sign of fear.
And whither now are his footsteps bent?
And where is the Troller bound?
To the horrid gill of the limestone hill,
To call on the Spectre Hound!
And on did he pass, o’er the dew-bent grass,
While the sweetest perfumes fell,
From the blossoming of the trees which spring
In the depth of that lonely dell.
Now before his eyes did the dark gill rise,
No moon-ray pierced its gloom,
And his steps around did the waters sound
Like a voice from a haunted tomb.
And there as he stept, a shuddering crept
O’er his frame, scarce known to fear,
For he once did dream, that the sprite of the stream
Had loudly called—Forbear!
An aged yew in the rough cliffs grew,
And under its sombre shade
Did the Troller rest, and with charms unblest,
He a magic circle made.
Then thrice did he turn where the streamers burn,[472]
And thrice did he kiss the ground,
And with solemn tone, in that gill so lone,
He call’d on the Spectre Hound!
And a burning brand he clasp’d in his hand,
And he nam’d a potent spell,
That, for Christian ear it were sin to hear,
And a sin for a bard to tell.[473]
And a whirlwind swept by, and stormy grew the sky,
And the torrent louder roar’d,
While a hellish flame, o’er the Troller’s stalwart frame
From each cleft of the gill was pour’d.
And a dreadful thing from the cliff did spring,
And its wild bark thrill’d around—
Its eyes had the glow of the fires below—
’Twas the form of the Spectre Hound!