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SONG OF THE HUNTER'S BRIDE.
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 ULRIC's hawk and hounds.
Three times I thus have watched the snow Grow crimson with the stain
The setting sun threw o'er the rock, And I have watched 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 equalled 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 ULRIC, welcome home!