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Poem
September 8, 1824
Massachusetts Spy And Worcester Advertiser
Worcester, Worcester County, Massachusetts
What is this article about?
A narrative poem based on a local legend of the supernatural Black Fox of Salmon River. Two hunters, an Indian and a white man, pursue the elusive fox on a winter night, but are led into an endless, doomed chase, never returning to their desolate hut.
Clipping
OCR Quality
95%
Excellent
Full Text
The lines below are founded on a legend that is as well authenticated as any superstition of the kind, and as current in the place where it originated, as could be expected of one that possesses so little interest.
The Black Fox of Salmon River.
"How cold, how beautiful, how bright,
The cloudless heaven above us shines;
But 'tis a howling winter's night—
Twould freeze the very forest pines.
The winds are up, while mortals sleep.
The stars look forth when eyes are shut,
The bolted snow lies drifted deep
Around our poor and lonely hut.
With silent step and listening ear,
With bow and arrow, dog and gun,
We'll mark his track, for his prow we hear;
Now is our time, come on, come on."
O'er many a fence, through many a wood,
Following the dog's bewilder'd scent,
In anxious haste and earnest mood,
The Indian and the white man went.
The gun is cock'd, the bow is bent.
The dog stands with lifted paw,
And ball and arrow swift are sent,
Aim'd at the prowler's very jaw.
The ball, to kill that fox, is run
Not in a mould by mortals made!
The arrow that that fox should shun,
Was never shaped from earthly reed!
The Indian Druids of the wood
Know where the fatal arrows grow!
They spring not by the summer flood,
They pierce not through the winter snow!
Why cowers the dog, whose snuffing nose
Was never once deceived till now?
And why, amid the chilling snows,
Does either hunter wipe his brow?
For once they see his fearful den—
'Tis a dark cloud that slowly moves
By night around the homes of men,
By day along the stream it loves.
Again the dog is on his track,
The hunters chase o'er dale and hill.
They may not, though they would, look back,
They must go forward—forward still.
Onward they go, and never turn,
Spending a night that meets no day:
For them shall never morning sun
Light them upon their endless way.
The hut is desolate, and there
The famish'd dog alone returns;
On the cold steps he makes his lair,
By the shut door he lays his bones.
Now the tir'd sportsman leans his gun
Against the ruins of the site.
And ponders on the hunting done
By the lost wanderers of the night.
And there the little country girls
Will stop to whisper, and listen, and look,
And tell, while dressing their sunny curls,
Of the Black Fox of Salmon Brook.
From the New-York Statesman.
The Black Fox of Salmon River.
"How cold, how beautiful, how bright,
The cloudless heaven above us shines;
But 'tis a howling winter's night—
Twould freeze the very forest pines.
The winds are up, while mortals sleep.
The stars look forth when eyes are shut,
The bolted snow lies drifted deep
Around our poor and lonely hut.
With silent step and listening ear,
With bow and arrow, dog and gun,
We'll mark his track, for his prow we hear;
Now is our time, come on, come on."
O'er many a fence, through many a wood,
Following the dog's bewilder'd scent,
In anxious haste and earnest mood,
The Indian and the white man went.
The gun is cock'd, the bow is bent.
The dog stands with lifted paw,
And ball and arrow swift are sent,
Aim'd at the prowler's very jaw.
The ball, to kill that fox, is run
Not in a mould by mortals made!
The arrow that that fox should shun,
Was never shaped from earthly reed!
The Indian Druids of the wood
Know where the fatal arrows grow!
They spring not by the summer flood,
They pierce not through the winter snow!
Why cowers the dog, whose snuffing nose
Was never once deceived till now?
And why, amid the chilling snows,
Does either hunter wipe his brow?
For once they see his fearful den—
'Tis a dark cloud that slowly moves
By night around the homes of men,
By day along the stream it loves.
Again the dog is on his track,
The hunters chase o'er dale and hill.
They may not, though they would, look back,
They must go forward—forward still.
Onward they go, and never turn,
Spending a night that meets no day:
For them shall never morning sun
Light them upon their endless way.
The hut is desolate, and there
The famish'd dog alone returns;
On the cold steps he makes his lair,
By the shut door he lays his bones.
Now the tir'd sportsman leans his gun
Against the ruins of the site.
And ponders on the hunting done
By the lost wanderers of the night.
And there the little country girls
Will stop to whisper, and listen, and look,
And tell, while dressing their sunny curls,
Of the Black Fox of Salmon Brook.
From the New-York Statesman.
What sub-type of article is it?
Ballad
What themes does it cover?
Death Mourning
Nature Seasons
What keywords are associated?
Black Fox
Salmon River
Legend
Hunters
Supernatural Chase
Winter Night
Doomed Pursuit
What entities or persons were involved?
From The New York Statesman.
Poem Details
Title
The Black Fox Of Salmon River.
Author
From The New York Statesman.
Subject
Legend Of The Black Fox Of Salmon River
Key Lines
The Ball, To Kill That Fox, Is Run
Not In A Mould By Mortals Made!
The Arrow That That Fox Should Shun,
Was Never Shaped From Earthly Reed!
Onward They Go, And Never Turn,
Spending A Night That Meets No Day:
For Them Shall Never Morning Sun
Light Them Upon Their Endless Way.
And There The Little Country Girls
Will Stop To Whisper, And Listen, And Look,
And Tell, While Dressing Their Sunny Curls,
Of The Black Fox Of Salmon Brook.