—A forest sad and dark,
A forest still and lone,—
So still, our hearts throb low, and hark
As if to hear a moan.
A night of thick, dark boughs and leaves,
A night amidst the day,
Which the scared day-light from its haunt
Doth never drive away.
And deep within that haunted wood,
Whose very hush alarms,
Broad gnarled knots like heads look out,
And on the darkness peer about,
'Neath branches crooked like arms.
And mossy stones lie black along
A brook which gurgles there,
As if its low incessant sound
Part of the silence were.
There are two who have lost their way,—
Mother and child are they,
Who think they see the growing night,
While yet 'tis mid of day.
Tearless the mother is, and pale,
And almost stern, through fear;
But in that dark and lonely wild
Nothing affrights the little child—
Is not its mother near?
And but for her strange look t'would shout,
As oft as turning back
She stops to listen, or to seek
The long-deserted track.
And still she struggles to recall
Each spot where'er they are,
And stops, and looks, though well she knows
She never hath been there.
And she would call, but that the sound
Upon her lips doth die;—
How if some evil thing should hear?
Who knows what thing is nigh!
And what is that, oh help her heaven!
That stands before her there,—
A tattered, gaunt and wretched man,
His limbs o'ergrown with hair;
A broken chain upon his leg,
A gnarled branch in his hand,
A madman, sure, whose rage hath burst
The dungeon and the band.
All mute and motionless she stands,
Yet marks his eye is mild;
And mute and motionless stands he,
And gazes on the child.
Alone she would have swooned through fear,
But now no fear hath she,
Save for the child, on which his eyes
He bends so wistfully.
And lest he snatch and bear it off
Into that forest drear,
She takes it in her arms, and flies,
While backward still its wide blue eyes
Over her shoulder peer.
With short and hurried step she flies,
The wild-man follows slow,
With long unhurried strides, but still
More fast than she can go.
And though she neither sees nor hears,
She feels that he is near;
And shorter grow her steps—when lo!
A woodman's axe rings clear.
And then a whistle sweet and loud,
Which breaks into a song,
And a sturdy voice rings cheerly out,
The silent woods among.
And the weary mother gasps with joy,
And sobs, and feels again
The thick hot throbbings of her heart,
And brings her breath with pain.
And tears fall bright and fast, as rain
Falls from a flying cloud,
Forwearied by the sobbing wind,
That breathes and sobs aloud.
She turns to look, and fixed he stands,
Stopped by the woodman's sound,
All still and motionless, as one
By wizard's whisper bound.
And mournfully he looks at them,
And tears are on his cheek;
How for a moment could she fear
That man so sad and meek?
And she will turn and speak to him,
In soothing words and kind;
And striving is her gentle heart
The fitting words to find.
And her lips they move as if to speak,
But ere they utter tone
She only sees the dark green leaves—
That strange sad man is gone.
A forest still and lone,—
So still, our hearts throb low, and hark
As if to hear a moan.
A night of thick, dark boughs and leaves,
A night amidst the day,
Which the scared day-light from its haunt
Doth never drive away.
And deep within that haunted wood,
Whose very hush alarms,
Broad gnarled knots like heads look out,
And on the darkness peer about,
'Neath branches crooked like arms.
And mossy stones lie black along
A brook which gurgles there,
As if its low incessant sound
Part of the silence were.
There are two who have lost their way,—
Mother and child are they,
Who think they see the growing night,
While yet 'tis mid of day.
Tearless the mother is, and pale,
And almost stern, through fear;
But in that dark and lonely wild
Nothing affrights the little child—
Is not its mother near?
And but for her strange look t'would shout,
As oft as turning back
She stops to listen, or to seek
The long-deserted track.
And still she struggles to recall
Each spot where'er they are,
And stops, and looks, though well she knows
She never hath been there.
And she would call, but that the sound
Upon her lips doth die;—
How if some evil thing should hear?
Who knows what thing is nigh!
And what is that, oh help her heaven!
That stands before her there,—
A tattered, gaunt and wretched man,
His limbs o'ergrown with hair;
A broken chain upon his leg,
A gnarled branch in his hand,
A madman, sure, whose rage hath burst
The dungeon and the band.
All mute and motionless she stands,
Yet marks his eye is mild;
And mute and motionless stands he,
And gazes on the child.
Alone she would have swooned through fear,
But now no fear hath she,
Save for the child, on which his eyes
He bends so wistfully.
And lest he snatch and bear it off
Into that forest drear,
She takes it in her arms, and flies,
While backward still its wide blue eyes
Over her shoulder peer.
With short and hurried step she flies,
The wild-man follows slow,
With long unhurried strides, but still
More fast than she can go.
And though she neither sees nor hears,
She feels that he is near;
And shorter grow her steps—when lo!
A woodman's axe rings clear.
And then a whistle sweet and loud,
Which breaks into a song,
And a sturdy voice rings cheerly out,
The silent woods among.
And the weary mother gasps with joy,
And sobs, and feels again
The thick hot throbbings of her heart,
And brings her breath with pain.
And tears fall bright and fast, as rain
Falls from a flying cloud,
Forwearied by the sobbing wind,
That breathes and sobs aloud.
She turns to look, and fixed he stands,
Stopped by the woodman's sound,
All still and motionless, as one
By wizard's whisper bound.
And mournfully he looks at them,
And tears are on his cheek;
How for a moment could she fear
That man so sad and meek?
And she will turn and speak to him,
In soothing words and kind;
And striving is her gentle heart
The fitting words to find.
And her lips they move as if to speak,
But ere they utter tone
She only sees the dark green leaves—
That strange sad man is gone.