Ralph Waldo Emerson, comp. (1803–1882). Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry. 1880.
The Wild HuntsmanSir Walter Scott (1771–1832)
T
To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo!
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,
And thronging serfs their lord pursue.
Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake;
While answering hound, and horn, and steed,
The mountain echoes startling wake.
Had painted yonder spire with gold,
And, calling sinful man to pray,
Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled:
Halloo, halloo! and, hark again!
When, spurring from opposing sides,
Two Stranger Horsemen join the train.
Well may I guess, but dare not tell;
The right-hand steed was silver white,
The left, the swarthy hue of hell.
His smile was like the morn of May;
The left, from eye of tawny glare,
Shot midnight lightning’s lurid ray.
Cried, “Welcome, welcome, noble lord!
What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,
To match the princely chase, afford?”
Cried the fair youth, with silver voice;
“And for devotion’s choral swell,
Exchange the rude unhallowed noise.
Yon bell yet summons to the fane;
To-day the Warning Spirit hear,
To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.”—
The Sable Hunter hoarse replies;
“To muttering monks leave matin-song,
And bells, and books, and mysteries.”
And, launching forward with a bound,
“Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede,
Would leave the jovial horn and hound?
With pious fools go chant and pray!—
Well hast thou spoke, my dark-browed friend;
Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!”
O’er moss and moor, o’er holt and hill;
And on the left, and on the right,
Each Stranger Horseman followed still.
A stag more white than mountain snow;
And louder rung the Wildgrave’s horn,
“Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!”
He gasps, the thundering hoofs below;—
But, live who can, or die who may,
Still, “Forward, forward!” on they go.
A field with autumn’s blessings crowned;
See, prostrate at the Wildgrave’s feet,
A husbandman with toil embrowned:
Spare the poor’s pittance,” was his cry,
“Earned by the sweat these brows have poured
In scorching hour of fierce July.”
The left still cheering to the prey;
The impetuous Earl no warning heeds,
But furious holds the onward way.
Or dread the scourge’s echoing blow!”—
Then loudly rung his bugle-horn,
“Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!”
Clears the poor laborer’s humble pale;
Wild follows man, and horse, and hound,
Like dark December’s stormy gale.
Destructive sweep the field along;
While, joying o’er the wasted corn,
Fell Famine marks the maddening throng.
Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill;
Hard run, he feels his strength decay,
And trusts for life his simple skill.
He seeks the shelter of the crowd:
Amid the flock’s domestic herd
His harmless head he hopes to shroud.
His track the steady bloodhounds trace;
O’er moss and moor, unwearied still,
The furious Earl pursues the chase.
“O spare, thou noble Baron, spare
These herds, a widow’s little all;
These flocks, an orphan’s fleecy care!”—
The left still cheering to the prey;
The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds,
But furious keeps the onward way.
Vain were thy cant and beggar whine,
Though human spirits, of thy sort,
Were tenants of these carrion kine!”—
“Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!”
And through the herd, in ruthless scorn,
He cheers his furious hounds to go.
Down sinks their mangled herdsman near;
The murderous cries the stag appal,—
Again he starts, new-nerved by fear.
While big the tears of anguish pour,
He seeks, amid the forest’s gloom,
The humble hermit’s hallowed bower.
Fast rattling on his traces go;
The sacred chapel rung around
With, “Hark away! and, holla, ho!”
The holy hermit poured his prayer:
“Forbear with blood God’s house to stain;
Revere his altar, and forbear!
Which, wronged by cruelty, or pride,
Draw vengeance on the ruthless head:—
Be warned at length, and turn aside.”—
The Black, wild whooping, points the prey:
Alas! the Earl no warning heeds,
But frantic keeps the forward way.
Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn;
Not sainted martyrs’ sacred song,
Not God himself, shall make me turn!”
“Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!”
But off, on whirlwind’s pinions borne,
The stag, the hut, the hermit, go.
And clamor of the chase, were gone;
For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound,
A deadly silence reigned alone.
He strove in vain to wake his horn,
In vain to call: for not a sound
Could from his anxious lips be borne.
No distant baying reached his ears;
His courser, rooted to the ground,
The quickening spur unmindful bears.
Dark as the darkness of the grave;
And not a sound the still invades,
Save what a distant torrent gave.
At length the solemn silence broke;
And from a cloud of swarthy red,
The awful voice of thunder spoke.
Apostate Spirit’s hardened tool!
Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor!
The measure of thy cup is full.
Forever roam the affrighted wild;
And let thy fate instruct the proud,
God’s meanest creature is his child.”
With yellow tinged the forests brown;
Up rose the Wildgrave’s bristling hair,
And horror chilled each nerve and bone.
A rising wind began to sing;
And louder, louder, louder still,
Brought storm and tempest on its wing.
From yawning rifts, with many a yell,
Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascend
The misbegotten dogs of hell.
Well may I guess, but dare not tell:
His eye like midnight lightning glows,
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.
With many a shriek of helpless woe;
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn,
And, “Hark away, and holla, ho!”
Close, close behind, he marks the throng,
With bloody fangs, and eager cry;
In frantic fear he scours along.—
Till time itself shall have an end:
By day, they scour earth’s caverned space,
At midnight’s witching hour, ascend.
That oft the lated peasant hears;
Appalled he signs the frequent cross,
When the wild din invades his ears.
For human pride, for human woe,
When, at his midnight mass, he hears
The infernal cry of, “Holla, ho!”