AT GRIMSPOUND

Glimmered the cone of many a leathern tent

And moonlight glazed the marsh,

While hungry wolf pack galloped swift and rent

The nightly air, where flocks were safely pent,

With ululation harsh.

The people slept, the sentinel alone

Upon his granite rest

Kept watch - a Stone Man, sitting on a stone.

Within one tent some baby made a moan

And met his mother's breast.

Then, where great Bellaford upon the night

Lifted a mighty head,

There twinkled out a sudden tongue of light;

The bale-fire blazed; the watcher yelled his

fright;

The lodge awoke in dread,

Flashed the red torch on hairy arm and thigh;

Leapt up the fighting men;

Huddled the skin-clad women; rose a cry

Of rage and terror to the starry sky

And fled the wolves to den.

Away the warriors thunder and their sound

Faints on the anxious ear.

The aged throng their waken fires around;

The children sleep again, while fold and pound

The women guard in fear.

They shiver and draw close shaggy hide;

The bale-fire dies away.

The night is long, and agony full tide

Drowns their aching hearts, till open wide

The silver gates of day.

Like a slow snake upon dewy earth

The fighting legions home.

They bring their spoils and prisoners with mirth,

And victory they bring, and perished worth,

For dead men also come.

The clan rejoices while the clansmen weep

And widowed women rave.

To heaven the red-fanged, raging fires leap

Where heroes' dust beneath one mighty heap

Of granite finds a grave.

Now they have vanished with their blood and

tears

Behind the rolling mist;

The Stone Man and his joys and hopes and fears

Are not: his home and grave defy the years

And with time keep a tryst.

EDEN PHILLPOTTS.

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