That love within my breast enshrined,
  In death alone shall be resign’d;
  And when the eve, thou lovest so well,
  Pours on my soul its soothing spell,
  I leave the city’s busy scene
  To seek thy dwelling, cold and green,—­
  In quiet sadness here to shed
  Love’s sacred tribute o’er the dead—­
  To dream again of days gone by,
    And hold sweet converse here with thee;
  In the soft air to feel thy sigh,
    Whilst winds and waters answer me. 
  Yes!—­though resign’d to Heaven’s high will,
  My joy shall be to love thee still!

CHAPTER X

BRIAN, THE STILL-HUNTER

  “O’er memory’s glass I see his shadow flit,
  Though he was gathered to the silent dust
  Long years ago.  A strange and wayward man,
  That shunn’d companionship, and lived apart;
  The leafy covert of the dark brown woods,
  The gleamy lakes, hid in their gloomy depths,
  Whose still, deep waters never knew the stroke
  Of cleaving oar, or echoed to the sound
  Of social life, contained for him the sum
  Of human happiness.  With dog and gun,
  Day after day he track’d the nimble deer
  Through all the tangled mazes of the forest.”

It was early day.  I was alone in the old shanty, preparing breakfast, and now and then stirring the cradle with my foot, when a tall, thin, middle-aged man walked into the house, followed by two large, strong dogs.

Placing the rifle he had carried on his shoulder, in a corner of the room, he advanced to the hearth, and without speaking, or seemingly looking at me, lighted his pipe and commenced smoking.  The dogs, after growling and snapping at the cat, who had not given the strangers a very courteous reception, sat down on the hearth-stone on either side of their taciturn master, eyeing him from time to time, as if long habit had made them understand all his motions.  There was a great contrast between the dogs.  The one was a brindled bulldog of the largest size, a most formidable and powerful brute; the other a staghound, tawny, deep-chested, and strong-limbed.  I regarded the man and his hairy companions with silent curiosity.

He was between forty and fifty years of age; his head, nearly bald, was studded at the sides with strong, coarse, black curling hair.  His features were high, his complexion brightly dark, and his eyes, in size, shape, and colour, greatly resembled the eyes of a hawk.  The face itself was sorrowful and taciturn; and his thin, compressed lips looked as if they were not much accustomed to smile, or often to unclose to hold social communion with any one.  He stood at the side of the huge hearth, silently smoking, his eyes bent on the fire, and now and then he patted the heads of his dogs, reproving their exuberant expression of attachment, with—­“Down, Music; down, Chance!”

“A cold, clear morning,” said I, in order to attract his attention and draw him into conversation.