# Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Owl's Revenge

The Owl's Revenge.
There sat an owl in an old oak tree, Whooping very merrily; He was considering as well he might, Ways and means for a supper that night: He looked about with a solemn scowl, Yet very happy was the owl, For, in the hollow of that oak tree, There sat his wife and his children three; She was singing one to rest, Another, under her downy breast 'Gan trying his voice, to learn her song; The third (a hungry owl was he) Peeped slyly out of the old oak tree, And peered for his dad, and said, "You're long But he hooted for joy, when he presently saw His sire, with a full-grown mouse in his claw. Oh what a supper they had that night! All was feasting and delight; Who most can chatter, or cram, they strive, They were the merriest owls alive.
What then did the old owl do? Ah! not so gay was his next too-whoo! It was very sadly said, For after his children had gone to bed (He did not sleep with his children three, For truly, a gentleman owl was he, Who would not on his wife intrude, When she was nursing her infant brood); So not to invade the nursery, He slept outside the hollow tree.
So when he woke at the fall of the dew, He called his wife with a loud too-whoo; "Awake, dear wife, it is evening grey, And our joys live from the death of day." He called once more, and he shuddered when No voice replied to his voice again; Yet still unwilling to believe, (And should it be, how he would grieve), That Evil's raven wing was spread, Hovering over his guiltless head, And shutting out joy from his hollow tree. "Ha—ha—they play me a trick," quoth he, "They will not speak—well, well, at night They'll talk enough, I'll take a flight." But still he went not in nor out, But hopped uneasily about.
What then did the father owl? He sat still, until below He heard cries of pain and woe, And saw his wife and children three, Tn a young boy's captivity. He followed them on noiseless wing, Not a cry once uttering. They went to a mansion tall; He sat in a window of the hall, Where he could see His bewildered family; And he heard the hall with laughter ring, When the boy said, "Blind they'll learn to sing And he heard the shriek when the hot steel pin Through their eyeballs was thrust in! He felt it all! Their agony Was echoed by his frantic cry, His scream rose up with a mighty swell, And wild on the boy's fierce heart it fell; It quailed him as he shuddering said, "Lo, the little birds are dead!" —But the father owl! He tore his breast in his despair, And flew—he knew not, recked not, where.
But whither, then, went the father owl, With his wild stare and deathly scowl? —He had got a strange, wild stare; For he thought he saw them ever there; And he screamed as they screamed when he saw them fall Dead on the floor of the marble hall.
Many seasons travelled he With his load of misery, Striving to forget his pain Which was clinging to his brain. Many seasons, many years, Numbered by his burning tears. Many nights his boding cry Scared the traveller passing by; But all in vain his wanderings were, He could not from his memory tear The things that had been—still were there.
One night—very, very weary, He sat in a hollow tree, With his thoughts—ah! all so dreary, For his only company. He heard something like a sound Of horse-hoofs through the forest bound, And full soon he was aware, A stranger and a lady fair Hid there, motionless and mute, From a husband's swift pursuit.
The cheated husband passed them by, The owl shrieked out, he scarce knew why; The spoiler looked, and by the light, Saw two wild eyes that, ghastly bright, Threw an unnatural glare around, The spot where he had shelter found. Starting, he woke from rapture's dream, For again he heard that boding scream, And "On—for danger and death are nigh When drinks mine ear yon dismal cry," He said, and fled through the forest fast; The owl had punished his foe at last, For he knew in the injured husband's foe, Him who had laid his own hopes low.
Sick grew the heart of the bird of night, And again and again he took to flight, But ever on his wandering wing He bore that load of suffering! Nought could cheer him! The pale moon, In whose soft beam he took delight, He looked at now reproachfully, That she could smile and shine, while he Had withered 'neath such cruel blight. He hooted her, but still she shone; And then away—alone! alone!
The wheel of time went round once more, And his weary wing him backward bore, Urged by some strong destiny, Again to the well-known forest tree; Where the stranger he saw at night, With the lovely lady bright.
The owl was dozing—but a stroke Strong on the foot of the sturdy oak Shook him from his reverie. He looked down, and he might see A stranger close to the hollow tree! His looks were haggard, wild, and bad, Yet the owl knew in the man, the lad Who had destroyed him!—he was glad!
And the lovely lady too was there, But now no longer bright nor fair; She was lying on the ground, Mute and motionless; no sound Came from her coral lips, for they Were sealed in blood; and, as she lay, Her locks, of the sun's most golden gleam, Were dabbled in the crimson stream. That from à wound on her bosom white— (Ah! that man's hand could such impress On that sweet seat of loveliness)— Welled, a sad and ghastly sight, And ran all wildly forth to meet And cling around the murderer's feet.
He was digging a grave; the bird Shrieked aloud, the murderer heard Once again that boding scream, And saw again those wild eyes gleam— And "Curse on the Fiend!" he cried, and flung His mattock up—it caught and hung; The felon stood awhile aghast,
Then fled through the forest—fast, fast, fast! The hardened murderer had fled, But the owl kept watch by the shroudless dead, Until came friends with the early day, And bore the mangled corse away; Then, cutting the air all silently, He fled away from his hollow tree.
Why is the crowd so great to-day, And why do the people shout "Huzza?" And why is yonder felon given Alone to feed the birds of heaven? Had he no friend, now all is done, To give his corse a grave? Not one!
Night has fallen, what means that cry? It descends from the gibbet high— There sits on its top a lonely owl, With a staring eye, and a dismal scowl; And he screams aloud, "Revenge is sweet!" His mortal foe is at his feet.