| |
| THE WILDGRAVE winds his bugle-horn, | |
| To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo! | |
| His fiery courser snuffs the morn, | |
| And thronging serfs their lord pursue. | |
| |
| The eager pack, from couples freed, | 5 |
| Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake; | |
| While answering hound and horn and steed | |
| The mountain echoes startling wake. | |
| |
| The beams of God’s own hallowed day | |
| Had painted yonder spire with gold, | 10 |
| And, calling sinful man to pray, | |
| Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled: | |
| |
| But still the wildgrave onward rides; | |
| Halloo, halloo! and hark again! | |
| When, spurring from opposing sides, | 15 |
| Two stranger horsemen join the train. | |
| |
| Who was each stranger, left and right, | |
| Well may I guess, but dare not tell: | |
| The right-hand steed was silver white, | |
| The left, the swarthy hue of hell. | 20 |
| |
| The right-hand horseman, young and fair, | |
| His smile was like the morn of May; | |
| The left, from eye of tawny glare, | |
| Shot midnight lightning’s lurid ray. | |
| |
| He waved his huntsman’s cap on high, | 25 |
| Cried, “Welcome, welcome, noble lord! | |
| What sport can earth or sea or sky, | |
| To match the princely chase, afford?” | |
| |
| “Cease thy loud bugle’s clanging knell,” | |
| Cried the fair youth, with silver voice; | 30 |
| “And for devotion’s choral swell | |
| Exchange the rude unhallowed noise. | |
| |
| “To-day the ill-omened chase forbear, | |
| Yon bell yet summons to the fane; | |
| To-day the warning spirit hear, | 35 |
| To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.” | |
| |
| “Away, and sweep the glades along!” | |
| The sable hunter hoarse replies; | |
| “To muttering monks leave matin song, | |
| And bells and books and mysteries.” | 40 |
| |
| The wildgrave spurred his ardent steed, | |
| And, launching forward with a bound, | |
| “Who, for thy drowsy priest-like rede, | |
| Would leave the jovial horn and hound? | |
| |
| “Hence, if our manly sport offend! | 45 |
| With pious fools go chant and pray: | |
| Well hast thou spoke, my dark-browed friend; | |
| Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!” | |
| |
| The wildgrave spurred his courser light, | |
| O’er moss and moor, o’er holt and hill; | 50 |
| And on the left and on the right | |
| Each stranger horseman followed still. | |
| |
| Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn, | |
| A stag more white than mountain snow; | |
| And louder rung the wildgrave’s horn, | 55 |
| “Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!” | |
| |
| A heedless wretch has crossed the way; | |
| He gasps, the thundering hoofs below; | |
| But, live who can, or die who may, | |
| Still, “Forward, forward!” on they go. | 60 |
| |
| See, where yon simple fences meet, | |
| A field with autumn’s blessings crowned; | |
| See, prostrate at the wildgrave’s feet, | |
| A husbandman, with toil embrowned: | |
| |
| “O mercy, mercy, noble lord! | 65 |
| Spare the poor’s pittance,” was his cry, | |
| “Earned by the sweat these brows have poured, | |
| In scorching hour of fierce July.” | |
| |
| Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, | |
| The left still cheering to the prey, | 70 |
| The impetuous earl no warning heeds, | |
| But furious holds the onward way. | |
| |
| “Away, thou hound! so basely born, | |
| Or dread the scourge’s echoing blow!” | |
| Then loudly rung his bugle-horn, | 75 |
| “Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!” | |
| |
| So said, so done: a single bound | |
| Clears the poor laborer’s humble pale; | |
| Wild follows man and horse and hound, | |
| Like dark December’s stormy gale. | 80 |
| |
| And man and horse and hound and horn | |
| Destructive sweep the field along; | |
| While joying o’er the wasted corn, | |
| Fell Famine marks the maddening throng. | |
| |
| Again uproused, the timorous prey | 85 |
| Scours moss and moor and holt and hill; | |
| Hard run, he feels his strength decay, | |
| And trusts for life his simple skill. | |
| |
| Too dangerous solitude appeared; | |
| He seeks the shelter of the crowd; | 90 |
| Amid the flock’s domestic herd | |
| His harmless head he hopes to shroud. | |
| |
| O’er moss and moor and holt and hill | |
| His track the steady bloodhounds trace; | |
| O’er moss and moor, unwearied still, | 95 |
| The furious earl pursues the chase. | |
| |
| Full lowly did the herdsman fall: | |
| “O, spare, thou noble baron, spare | |
| These herds, a widow’s little all; | |
| These flocks, an orphan’s fleecy care.” | 100 |
| |
| Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, | |
| The left still cheering to the prey; | |
| The earl nor prayer nor pity heeds, | |
| But furious keeps the onward way. | |
| |
| “Unmannered dog! To stop my sport | 105 |
| Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, | |
| Though human spirits, of thy sort, | |
| Were tenants of these carrion kine!” | |
| |
| Again he winds his bugle-horn, | |
| “Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!” | 110 |
| And through the herd, in ruthless scorn, | |
| He cheers his furious hounds to go. | |
| |
| In heaps the throttled victims fall; | |
| Down sinks their mangled herdsman near; | |
| The murderous cries the stag appall, | 115 |
| Again he starts, new nerved by fear. | |
| |
| With blood besmeared, and white with foam, | |
| While big the tears of anguish pour, | |
| He seeks, amid the forest’s gloom, | |
| The humble hermit’s hallowed bower. | 120 |
| |
| But man and horse and horn and hound | |
| Fast rattling on his traces go; | |
| The sacred chapel rung around | |
| With, “Hark away! and holla, ho!” | |
| |
| All mild, amid the rout profane, | 125 |
| The holy hermit poured his prayer: | |
| “Forbear with blood God’s house to stain; | |
| Revere his altar, and forbear! | |
| |
| “The meanest brute has rights to plead, | |
| Which, wronged by cruelty or pride, | 130 |
| Draw vengeance on the ruthless head: | |
| Be warned at length, and turn aside.” | |
| |
| Still the fair horseman anxious pleads; | |
| The black, wild whooping, points the prey: | |
| Alas! the earl no warning heeds, | 135 |
| But frantic keeps the forward way. | |
| |
| “Holy or not, or right or wrong, | |
| Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn; | |
| Not sainted martyrs’ sacred song, | |
| Not God himself, shall make me turn!” | 140 |
| |
| He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, | |
| “Hark, forward, forward, holla, ho! | |
| But off, on whirlwind’s pinions borne, | |
| The stag, the hut, the hermit, go. | |
| |
| And horse and man and horn and hound | 145 |
| And clamor of the chase was gone; | |
| For hoofs and howls and bugle sound, | |
| A deadly silence reigned alone. | |
| |
| Wild gazed the affrighted earl around; | |
| He strove in vain to wake his horn; | 150 |
| In vain to call, for not a sound | |
| Could from his anxious lips be borne; | |
| |
| He listens for his trusty hounds; | |
| No distant baying reached his ears: | |
| His courser, rooted to the ground, | 155 |
| The quickening spur unmindful bears. | |
| |
| Still dark and darker frown the shades, | |
| Dark as the darkness of the grave; | |
| And not a sound the still invades, | |
| Save what a distant torrent gave. | 160 |
| |
| High o’er the sinner’s humbled head | |
| At length the solemn silence broke; | |
| And from a cloud of swarthy red | |
| The awful voice of thunder spoke: | |
| |
| “Oppressor of creation fair! | 165 |
| Apostate spirit’s hardened tool! | |
| Scorner of God! scourge of the poor! | |
| The measure of thy cup is full. | |
| |
| “Be chased forever through the wood; | |
| Forever roam the affrighted wild; | 170 |
| And let thy fate instruct the proud, | |
| God’s meanest creature is his child.” | |
| |
| ’T was hushed: one flash, of sombre glare, | |
| With yellow tinged the forests brown; | |
| Up rose the wildgrave’s bristling hair, | 175 |
| And horror chilled each nerve and bone. | |
| |
| Cold poured the sweat in freezing rill; | |
| A rising wind began to sing; | |
| And louder, louder, louder still, | |
| Brought storm and tempest on its wing. | 180 |
| |
| Earth heard the call! her entrails rend; | |
| From yawning rifts, with many a yell, | |
| Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascend | |
| The misbegotten dogs of hell. | |
| |
| What ghastly huntsman next arose, | 185 |
| Well may I guess, but dare not tell; | |
| His eye like midnight lightning glows, | |
| His steed the swarthy hue of hell. | |
| |
| The wildgrave flies o’er bush and thorn, | |
| With many a shriek of helpless woe; | 190 |
| Behind him hound and horse and horn, | |
| And, “Hark away! and holla, ho!” | |
| |
| With wild despair’s reverted eye, | |
| Close, close behind, he marks the throng, | |
| With bloody fangs, and eager cry, | 195 |
| In frantic fear he scours along. | |
| |
| Still, still shall last the dreadful chase, | |
| Till time itself shall have an end. | |
| By day, they scour earth’s caverned space, | |
| At midnight’s witching hour, ascend. | 200 |
| |
| This is the horn and hound and horse | |
| That oft the ’lated peasant hears; | |
| Appalled he signs the frequent cross, | |
| When the wild din invades his ears. | |
| |
| The wakeful priest oft drops a tear | 205 |
| For human pride, for human woe, | |
| When, at his midnight mass, he hears | |
| The infernal cry of “Holla, ho!” | |
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