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Best Famous Bloodhound Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Bloodhound poems. This is a select list of the best famous Bloodhound poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Bloodhound poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of bloodhound poems.

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Written by Thomas Hood | Create an image from this poem

The Haunted House

 Oh, very gloomy is the house of woe,
Where tears are falling while the bell is knelling,
With all the dark solemnities that show
That Death is in the dwelling!

Oh, very, very dreary is the room
Where Love, domestic Love, no longer nestles,
But smitten by the common stroke of doom,
The corpse lies on the trestles!

But house of woe, and hearse, and sable pall,
The narrow home of the departed mortal,
Ne’er looked so gloomy as that Ghostly Hall,
With its deserted portal!

The centipede along the threshold crept,
The cobweb hung across in mazy tangle,
And in its winding sheet the maggot slept
At every nook and angle.
The keyhole lodged the earwig and her brood, The emmets of the steps has old possession, And marched in search of their diurnal food In undisturbed procession.
As undisturbed as the prehensile cell Of moth or maggot, or the spider’s tissue, For never foot upon that threshold fell, To enter or to issue.
O’er all there hung the shadow of a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is haunted.
Howbeit, the door I pushed—or so I dreamed-- Which slowly, slowly gaped, the hinges creaking With such a rusty eloquence, it seemed That Time himself was speaking.
But Time was dumb within that mansion old, Or left his tale to the heraldic banners That hung from the corroded walls, and told Of former men and manners.
Those tattered flags, that with the opened door, Seemed the old wave of battle to remember, While fallen fragments danced upon the floor Like dead leaves in December.
The startled bats flew out, bird after bird, The screech-owl overhead began to flutter, And seemed to mock the cry that she had heard Some dying victim utter! A shriek that echoed from the joisted roof, And up the stair, and further still and further, Till in some ringing chamber far aloof In ceased its tale of murther! Meanwhile the rusty armor rattled round, The banner shuddered, and the ragged streamer; All things the horrid tenor of the sound Acknowledged with a tremor.
The antlers where the helmet hung, and belt, Stirred as the tempest stirs the forest branches, Or as the stag had trembled when he felt The bloodhound at his haunches.
The window jingled in its crumbled frame, And through its many gaps of destitution Dolorous moans and hollow sighings came, Like those of dissolution.
The wood-louse dropped, and rolled into a ball, Touched by some impulse occult or mechanic; And nameless beetles ran along the wall In universal panic.
The subtle spider, that, from overhead, Hung like a spy on human guilt and error, Suddenly turned, and up its slender thread Ran with a nimble terror.
The very stains and fractures on the wall, Assuming features solemn and terrific, Hinted some tragedy of that old hall, Locked up in hieroglyphic.
Some tale that might, perchance, have solved the doubt, Wherefore, among those flags so dull and livid, The banner of the bloody hand shone out So ominously vivid.
Some key to that inscrutable appeal Which made the very frame of Nature quiver, And every thrilling nerve and fiber feel So ague-like a shiver.
For over all there hung a cloud of fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is haunted! Prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread, But through one gloomy entrance pointing mostly, The while some secret inspiration said, “That chamber is the ghostly!” Across the door no gossamer festoon Swung pendulous, --no web, no dusty fringes, No silky chrysalis or white cocoon, About its nooks and hinges.
The spider shunned the interdicted room, The moth, the beetle, and the fly were banished, And when the sunbeam fell athwart the gloom, The very midge had vanished.
One lonely ray that glanced upon a bed, As if with awful aim direct and certain, To show the Bloody Hand, in burning red, Embroidered on the curtain.

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Man From Snowy River

 There was movement at the station, for the word has passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses—he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up— He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand; No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand— He had learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a sripling on a small and weedy beast, He was something like a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony—three parts thoroughbred at least— And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry—just the sort that won't say die— There was courage in his quick impatient tread; And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, And the old man said, "That horse will never do For a long and tiring gallop—lad, you'd better stop away, For those hills are far too rough for such as you.
" So he waited, sad and wistful—only Clancy stood his friend— "I think we ought to let him come," he said; "I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
'He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosiosko's side, Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough; Where the horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flintstones every stride, There the man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders in the mountains make their home, Wher the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many riders since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.
" So he went; they found the horses by the big mimosa clump, They raced away towards the mountain's brow, And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills.
" So Clancy rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest riders take their place.
And he raced his stock-horse past them.
and he made the ranges ring With his stock-whip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stock-whip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And their stock-whips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back from the cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, Where the mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good-day, For no man can hold them down the other side.
" When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull— It well might make the boldest hold their breath; For the wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full Of wombat holes, and any slip meant death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have its head, He swung his stock-whip round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down that mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flintstones flying, but the pony kept its feet, He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat— It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, over rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as he climbed the further hill, And the watchers on the hillside, standing mute, Saw him ply the stock-whip fiercely; he was right among them still, As he raced across a clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges—but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside, the wild horses racing yet With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their flanks were white with foam; He followed like a bloodhound in their track, Till they halted, cowed and beaten; and he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosiosko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze Of a midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where around the Overflow the reed-beds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, There the man from Snowy River is a household word today, And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
Written by Joseph Brodsky | Create an image from this poem

Letter to an Archaeologist

Citizen enemy mama's boy sucker utter
garbage panhandler swine refujew verrucht;
a scalp so often scalded with boiling water
that the puny brain feels completely cooked.
Yes we have dwelt here: in this concrete brick wooden rubble which you now arrive to sift.
All our wires were crossed barbed tangled or interwoven.
Also: we didn't love our women but they conceived.
Sharp is the sound of pickax that hurts dead iron still it's gentler that what we've been told or have said ourselves.
Stranger! move carefully through our carrion: what seems carrion to you is freedom to our cells Leave our names alone.
Don't reconstruct those vowels consonants and so forth: they won't resemble larks but a demented bloodhound whose maw devours its own traces feces and barks and barks.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem


 But he saw nothing; space was black—no sound. 
 "Forward," said Canute, raising his proud head. 
 There fell a second stain beside the first, 
 Then it grew larger, and the Cimbrian chief 
 Stared at the thick vague darkness, and saw naught. 
 Still as a bloodhound follows on his track, 
 Sad he went on. 'There fell a third red stain 
 On the white winding-sheet. He had never fled; 
 Howbeit Canute forward went no more, 
 But turned on that side where the sword arm hangs. 
 A drop of blood, as if athwart a dream, 
 Fell on the shroud, and reddened his right hand. 
 Then, as in reading one turns back a page, 
 A second time he changed his course, and turned 
 To the dim left. There fell a drop of blood. 
 Canute drew back, trembling to be alone, 
 And wished he had not left his burial couch. 
 But, when a blood-drop fell again, he stopped, 
 Stooped his pale head, and tried to make a prayer. 
 Then fell a drop, and the prayer died away 
 In savage terror. Darkly he moved on, 
 A hideous spectre hesitating, white, 
 And ever as he went, a drop of blood 
 Implacably from the darkness broke away 
 And stained that awful whiteness. He beheld 
 Shaking, as doth a poplar in the wind, 
 Those stains grow darker and more numerous: 
 Another, and another, and another. 
 They seem to light up that funereal gloom, 
 And mingling in the folds of that white sheet, 
 Made it a cloud of blood. He went, and went, 
 And still from that unfathomable vault 
 The red blood dropped upon him drop by drop, 
 Always, for ever—without noise, as though 
 From the black feet of some night-gibbeted corpse. 
 Alas! Who wept those formidable tears? 
 The Infinite!—Toward Heaven, of the good 
 Attainable, through the wild sea of night, 
 That hath not ebb nor flow, Canute went on, 
 And ever walking, came to a closed door, 
 That from beneath showed a mysterious light. 
 Then he looked down upon his winding-sheet, 
 For that was the great place, the sacred place, 
 That was a portion of the light of God, 
 And from behind that door Hosannas rang. 
 The winding-sheet was red, and Canute stopped. 
 This is why Canute from the light of day 
 Draws ever back, and hath not dared appear 
 Before the Judge whose face is as the sun. 
 This is why still remaineth the dark king 
 Out in the night, and never having power 
 To bring his robe back to its first pure state, 
 But feeling at each step a blood-drop fall, 
 Wanders eternally 'neath the vast black heaven. 
 Dublin University Magazine 
 {Footnote 1: King Canute slew his old father, Sweno, to obtain the crown.} 


Written by Marriott Edgar | Create an image from this poem

The Ole in the Ark

 One evening at dusk as Noah stood on his Ark,
Putting green oil in starboard side lamp,
His wife came along and said, 'Noah, summat's wrong,
Our cabin is getting quite damp.
Noah said, 'Is that so?' Then he went down below, And found it were right what she'd said, For there on the floor quite a puddle he saw, It was slopping around under t' bed.
Said he, 'There's an 'ole in the bottom somewhere, We must find it before we retire.
' Then he thowt for a bit, and he said 'Aye, that's it, A bloodhound is what we require.
' Se he went and fetched bloodhound from place where it lay, 'Tween the skunk and the polecat it were, And as things there below, were a trifle so-so, It were glad of a breath of fresh air.
They followed the sound as it went sniffing round, 'Til at last they located the leak, 'Twere a small hole in the side, about two inches wide, Where a swordfish had poked in its beak.
And by gum! how the wet squirted in through that hole, Well, young Shem who at sums was expert, Worked it out on his slate that it came at the rate, Of per gallon, per second, per squirt.
The bloodhound tried hard to keep water in check, By lapping it up with his tongue, But it came in so fast through that hole, that at last, He shoved in his nose for a bung.
The poor faithful hound, he were very near drowned, They dragged him away none too soon, For the stream as it rose, pushed its way up his nose, And blew him up like a balloon.
And then Mrs Noah shoved her elbow in t'hole, And said,' Eh! it's stopped I believe,' But they found very soon as she'd altered her tune, For the water had got up her sleeve.
When she saw as her elbow weren't doing much good, She said to Noah, 'I've an idea, You sit on the leak and by t'end of the week, There's no knowing, the weather may clear.
' Noah didn't think much to this notion, at all, But reckoned he'd give it a try, On the 'ole down he flopped, and the leaking all stopped, And all.
except him, was quite dry.
They took him his breakfast and dinner and tea, As day after day there he sat, 'Til the rain was all passed and they landed at last, On top side of Mount Ararat.
And that is how Noah got them all safe ashore, But ever since then, strange to tell, Them as helped save the Ark has all carried a mark, Aye, and all their descendants as well.
That's why dog has a cold nose, and ladies cold elbows, You'll also find if you enquire, That's why a man takes his coat tails in hand, And stands with his back to the fire.