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,
Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord!
What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,

To match the princely chase, afford ?"

"Cease thy loud bugle's changing knell," Cried the fair youth, with silver voice; "And for devotion's choral swell,

Exchange the rude unhallow'd noise.

"To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear, Yon bell yet summons to the fane; To-day the Warning Spirit hear,

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."

The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed,
And, lanching forward with a bound,
"Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede,
Would leave the jovial horn and hound?

"Hence, if our manly sport offend!

With pious fools go chant and pray:Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd friend: Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!"

The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser light,
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill;
And on the left, and on the right,

Each Stranger Horseman follow'd still.

Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn,
A stag more white than mountain snow;
And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn,
"Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!"

A heedless wretch has cross'd the way;
He gasps, the thundering hoofs below;-
But, live who can, or die who may,

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Still, Forward, forward!" on they go.

See, where yon simple fences meet,
A field with autumn's blessings crown'd;
See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet,
A husbandman with toil embrown'd:

"O mercy, mercy, noble lord!

Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, "Earn'd by the sweat these brows have pour'd, In scorching hour of fierce July.”—

Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads,
The left still cheering to the prey;
The impetuous Earl no warning heeds,
But furious holds the onward way.

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Away, thou hound! so basely born,

Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!"—

Then loudly rung his bugle horn,

"Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!"

So said, so done:-A single bound

Clears the poor labourer's humble pale; Wild follows man, and horse, and hound, Like dark December's stormy gale.

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

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 appear'd;

He seeks the shelter of the crowd; 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 blood-hounds trace;

O'er moss and moor, unwearied still,
The furious Earl pursues the chase.

Full lowly did the herdsman fall;thou noble Baron, spare These herds, a widow's little all;

spare,

These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care!"—

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.

"Unmanner'd dog! To stop my sport
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!" 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 appal,-
Again he starts, new-nerved by fear.

With blood besmear'd, and white with foam,
While big the tears of anguish pour,
He seeks, amid the forest's gloom,

The humble hermit's hallow'd bower.

But man and horse, and horn and hound,
Fast rattling on his traces go;

The sacred chapel rung around

With, "Hark away! and, holla, họ!"

All mild, amid the rout profane,

The holy hermit pour'd his prayer; "Forbear with blood God's house to stain: Revere his altar, and forbear!

“The meanest brute has rights to plead,
Which, wrong'd by cruelty, or pride,
Draw vengeance on the ruthless head:-
Be warn'd at length, and turn aside."-

:

Still the Fair Horseman anxious pleads;

The Black, wild whooping, points the prey:Alas! the Earl no warning heeds,

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But frantic keeps the forward way.

Holy or not, or right or wrong, Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn; Not sainted martyr's sacred song,

Not God himself, shall make me turn!"

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,
And clamour of the chase was gone;
For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound,
A deadly silence reign'd alone.

Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around;
He strove in vain to wake his horn,
In vain to call: for not a sound
Could from his anxious lips be borne.

He listens for his trusty hounds;
No distant baying reach'd his ears:
His courser, rooted to the ground,
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.

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