THE huntsman and his bloodhounds
Are coursing overhead,
And from each saddened threshold
They summon forth the dead.
Hush! they have stopped a moment;
Dost hear their calling low,
That through the open window
The soul may with them go?
O'er valley and o'er hillside,
O'er lowly cot and court,
Onward the phantom huntsman
Pursues his ghastly sport.
The rain beats down in torrents,
The pine-trees moan and sigh,
The traveller is belated,
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