The Wild Huntsman.

Darkness and danger are our natural lot;
And evil spirits may our walk attend
For aught the wisest know or comprehend;
Then be good spirits free to breathe a note
Of elevation; let their odours float
Around us.-WORDSWORTH.

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,

Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake; While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake.

1

The beams of God's own hallow'd day
Had painted yonder spire with gold,
And, calling sinful man to pray,
Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd.
But still the Wildgrave onward rides;
Halloo, halloo! and hark again!
When, spurring from opposing sides,
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.

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 clanging knell !"
Cried the fair youth, with silver voice;
"And for Devotion's choral swell
Exchange the rude unhallow'd noise.
"To-day th' ill-omen'd chase forbear;
Yon bell yet summons to the fane;
To-day the warning spirit hear;
To-morrow thou may'st mourn in vain!"

Away, and sweep the glades along!" The sable hunter hoarse replies;

"To mutt'ring monks leave matin song,
And bells, and books, and mysteries."
The Wildgrave spurr'd 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:
With pious fools go chaunt 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,
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:
Th' 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,
"Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!"
So said, so done-a single bound
Clears the poor lab'rer'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 madd'ning throng.
Again, up-roused, the tim'rous prey
Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill;
Hard run, he feels his strength decay,
And trusts for life his simple skill.

Too dang'rous solitude appear'd;
He seeks the shelter of the crowd;
Amid the flock's domestic herd

His harmless head he hopes to shroud.