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 lady love,
’Neath the light of the polar star.

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,
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.

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.

In the evening calm a funeral psalm
Slowly stole o’er a 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.