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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!