On the steep fell’s height shone the fair moonlight,
And its beams illum’d the dale,
And a silvery sheen cloth’d the forest green,
Which sigh’d to the moaning gale.
From Burnsal’s tower the midnight hour
Had toll’d, and its echo was still,
And the elfin band, from faërie land,
Was upon Elboton hill.
’Twas silent all, save the waters’ fall,
That with never ceasing din,
Roar and rush, and foam and gush,
In Loupscar’s troubled linn.
From his cot he stept, while the household slept,
And he carroll’d with boist’rous glee,
But he ne hied to the green hill’s side,
The faerie train to see.
He went not to roam with his own dear maid
Along by a pine-clad scar,
Nor sing a lay to his ladye love,
’Neath the light of the polar star.
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!
* * * * *
When on Rylstonne’s height glow’d the morning light,
And, borne on the mountain air,
The Priorie[474] bell did the peasants tell
’Twas the chanting of matin prayer,
By peasant men, where the horrid glen
Doth its rugged jaws expand,
A corse was found, where a dark yew frown’d,
And marks were imprest on the dead man’s breast--
But they seem’d not by mortal hand.
* * * * *
In the evening calm a funeral psalm
Slowly stole o’er the woodland scene--
The harebells wave on a new-made grave
In “Burnsall’s church-yard green.”
That funeral psalm in the evening calm,
Which echo’d the dell around,
Was his, o’er whose grave blue harebells wave,
Who call’d on the Spectre Hound!
* * * * *
The above ballad is founded on a tradition, very common amongst the
mountains of Craven. The spectre hound is _Bargest_. Of this mysterious
personage I am able to give a very particular account, having only a few
days ago seen Billy B----y, who had once a full view of it. I give the
narrative in his own words; it would detract from its merit to alter the
language.