Classic Poem

Another day — another day,
And yet he comes not nigh;
I look amid the dim blue hills,
Yet nothing meets mine eye.

I hear the rush of mountain-streams
Upon the echoes borne;
I hear the singing of the birds, —
But not my hunter's horn.

The eagle sails in darkness past,
The watchful chamois bounds;
But what I look for comes not near, —
My U LRIC'S hawk and hounds.

Three times I thus have watch'd the snow
Grow crimson with the stain
The setting sun threw o'er the rock,
And I have watch'd in vain.

I love to see the graceful bow
Across his shoulder slung, —
I love to see the golden horn
Beside his baldric hung.

I love his dark hounds, and I love
His falcon's sweeping flight;
I love to see his manly cheek
With mountain-colours bright.

I've waited patiently, but now
Would that the chase were o'er:
Well may he love the hunter's toil,
But he should love me more.

Why stays he thus? — he would be here
If his love equall'd mine; —
Methinks had I one fond caged dove,
I would not let it pine.

But, hark! what are those ringing steps
That up the valley come?
I see his hounds, — I see himself, —
My U LRIC , welcome home!