YE who listen to stories told,
When hearths are cheery and nights are cold,
Of the lone wood-side, and the hungry pack
That howls on the fainting traveller’s track—
Flame-red eyeballs that waylay,
By the wintry moon, the belated sleigh,—
The lost child sought in the dismal wood,
The little shoes and the stains of blood
On the trampled snow,—O ye that hear,
With thrills of pity or chills of fear,
Wishing some angel had been sent
To shield the hapless and innocent,—
Know ye the fiend that is crueler far
Than the gaunt grey herds of the forest are?
Swiftly vanish the wild fleet tracks
Before the rifle and woodman’s axe;
But hark to the coming of unseen feet,
Pattering by night through the city street!
Each wolf that dies in the woodland brown
Lives a spectre and haunts the town.
By square and market they slink and prowl,
In lane and alley they leap and howl.
