Verse > Anthologies > Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. > Poems of Places > Germany
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed.  Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Germany: Vols. XVII–XVIII.  1876–79.
 
Miscellaneous
The Wild Huntsman
Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832)
 
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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