In the Saddle: A Collection of Poems on Horseback-Riding

THOMAS THE RHYMER

True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;2A ferlie3 he spied wi' his ee;And there he saw a ladye bright,Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk,Her mantle o' the velvet fyne;At ilka4 tett of her horse's mane,Hung fifty siller bells and nine.True Thomas, he pulled aff his cap,And louted5 low down to his knee,"All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!For thy peer on earth I never did see.""O no, O no, Thomas," she said,"That name does not belang to me;I am but the Queen of fair Elfland,That am hither come to visit thee."Harp and carp, Thomas," she said;"Harp and carp along wi' me;And if ye dare to kiss my lips,Sure of your bodie I will be.""Betide me weal, betide me woe,That weird6 shall never daunton me." —Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips,All underneath the Eildon Tree."Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said;"True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me;And ye maun serve me seven years,Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be."She mounted on her milk-white steed;She's ta'en true Thomas up behind:And aye, whene'er her bridle rung,The steed flew swifter than the wind.O they rade on, and farther on;The steed gaed swifter than the wind;Until they reached a desert wide,And living land was left behind."Light down, light down, now, true Thomas,And lean your head upon my knee;Abide and rest a little space,And I will show you ferlies7 three."O see ye not yon narrow road,So thick beset with thorns and briers?That is the path of righteousness,Though after it but few inquires."And see ye not that braid braid road,That lies across that lily leven?That is the path of wickedness,Though some call it the road to heaven."And see not ye that bonny road,That winds about the fernie brae?That is the road to fair Elfland,Where thou and I this night maun gae."But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,Whatever ye may hear or see;For, if ye speak word in Elfyn land,Ye'll ne'er get back to your ain countrie."O they rade on, and farther on,And they waded through rivers aboon the knee,And they saw neither sun nor moon,But they heard the roaring of the sea.It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern light,And they waded through red blude to the knee,For a' the blude that's shed on earthRins through the springs o' that countrie.Syne they came on to a garden green,And she pu'd an apple frae a tree —"Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;It will give thee the tongue that can never lie.""My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas said;"A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!I neither dought to buy nor sell,At fair or tryst where I may be."I dought neither speak to prince or peer,Nor ask of grace from fair ladye.""Now hold thy peace!" the lady said,"For as I say, so must it be."He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,And a pair of shoes of velvet green;And till seven years were gane and past,True Thomas on earth was never seen.Walter Scott.

THE GREEN GNOME

A MELODYRing, sing! ring, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells!Chime, rhyme! chime, rhyme! through dales and dells!Rhyme, ring! chime, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells!Chime, sing! rhyme, ring! over fields and fells!And I galloped and I galloped on my palfrey white as milk,My robe was of the sea-green woof, my serk was of the silk;My hair was golden-yellow, and it floated to my shoe;My eyes were like two harebells bathed in little drops of dew;My palfrey, never stopping, made a music sweetly blentWith the leaves of autumn dropping all around me as I went;And I heard the bells, grown fainter, far behind me peal and play,Fainter, fainter, fainter, till they seemed to die away;And beside a silver runnel, on a little heap of sand,I saw the green gnome sitting, with his cheek upon his hand.Then he started up to see me, and he ran with a cry and bound,And drew me from my palfrey white and set me on the ground.O crimson, crimson were his locks, his face was green to see,But he cried, "O light-haired lassie, you are bound to marry me!"He clasped me round the middle small, he kissed me on the cheek,He kissed me once, he kissed me twice, I could not stir or speak;He kissed me twice, he kissed me thrice; but when he kissed again,I called aloud upon the name of Him who died for men.Sing, sing! ring, ring! pleasant Sabbath bells!Chime, rhyme! chime, rhyme! through dales and dells!Rhyme, ring! chime, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells!Chime, sing! rhyme, ring! over fields and fells!O faintly, faintly, faintly, calling men and maids to pray,So faintly, faintly, faintly rang the bells far away;And as I named the Blessed Name, as in our need we can,The ugly green gnome became a tall and comely man:His hands were white, his beard was gold, his eyes were black as sloes,His tunic was of scarlet woof, and silken were his hose;A pensive light from faëryland still lingered on his cheek,His voice was like the running brook when he began to speak:"O, you have cast away the charm my step-dame put on me,Seven years have I dwelt in Faëryland, and you have set me free.O, I will mount thy palfrey white, and ride to kirk with thee,And, by those dewy little eyes, we twain will wedded be!"Back we galloped, never stopping, he before and I behind,And the autumn leaves were dropping, red and yellow in the wind;And the sun was shining clearer, and my heart was high and proud,As nearer, nearer, nearer rang the kirk bells sweet and loud,And we saw the kirk, before us, as we trotted down the fells,And nearer, clearer, o'er us, rang the welcome of the bells.Ring, sing! ring, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells!Chime, rhyme! chime, rhyme! through dales and dells!Rhyme, ring! chime, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells!Chime, sing! rhyme, ring! over fields and fells!Robert Buchanan.

FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE

It was the morning season of the year;It was the morning era of the land;The watercourses rang full loud and clear;Portala's cross stood where Portala's handHad planted it when Faith was taught by Fear,When monks and missions held the sole commandOf all that shore beside the peaceful sea,Where spring-tides beat their long-drawn réveille.Out of the Mission of San Luis Rey,All in that brisk, tumultuous spring weather,Rode Friar Pedro, in a pious way,With six dragoons in cuirasses of leather,Each armed alike for either prayer or fray,Handcuffs and missals they had slung together;And as in aid the gospel truth to scatterEach swung a lasso —alias a "riata."In sooth, that year the harvest had been slack,The crop of converts scarce worth computation;Some souls were lost, whose owners had turned backTo save their bodies frequent flagellation;And some preferred the songs of birds, alack!To Latin matins and their soul's salvation,And thought their own wild whoopings were less drearyThan Father Pedro's droning miserere.To bring them back to matins and to prime,To pious works and secular submission,To prove to them that liberty was crime, —This was, in fact, the Padre's present mission;To get new souls perchance at the same time,And bring them to a "sense of their condition" —That easy phrase, which, in the past and present,Means making that condition most unpleasant.He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow;He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill;He saw the gopher working in his burrow;He saw the squirrel scampering at his will; —He saw all this and felt no doubt a thoroughAnd deep conviction of God's goodness; stillHe failed to see that in His glory HeYet left the humblest of His creatures free.He saw the flapping crow, whose frequent noteVoiced the monotony of land and sky,Mocking with graceless wing and rusty coatHis priestly presence as he trotted by.He would have cursed the bird by bell and rote,But other game just then was in his eye —A savage camp, whose occupants preferredTheir heathen darkness to the living Word.He rang his bell, and at the martial soundTwelve silver spurs their jingling rowels clashed;Six horses sprang across the level groundAs six dragoons in open order dashed;Above their heads the lassos circled round,In every eye a pious fervor flashed;They charged the camp, and in one moment moreThey lassoed six and reconverted four.The Friar saw the conflict from a knoll,And sang Laus Deo and cheered on his men:"Well thrown, Bautista – that's another soul;After him, Gomez – try it once again;This way, Felipe – there the heathen stole;Bones of St. Francis! – surely that makes ten;Te deum laudamus– but they're very wild;Non nobis dominus– all right, my child!"When at that moment – as the story goes —A certain squaw, who had her foes eluded,Ran past the Friar – just before his nose.He stared a moment, and in silence brooded,Then in his breast a pious frenzy roseAnd every other prudent thought excluded;He caught a lasso, and dashed in a canterAfter that Occidental Atalanta.High o'er his head he swirled the dreadful noose,But, as the practice was quite unfamiliar,His first cast tore Felipe's captive looseAnd almost choked Tiburcio Camilla,And might have interfered with that brave youth'sAbility to gorge the tough tortilla;But all things come by practice, and at lastHis flying slip-knot caught the maiden fast.Then rose above the plain a mingled yellOf rage and triumph – a demoniac whoop;The Padre heard it like a passing knell,And would have loosened his unchristian loop;But the tough raw-hide held the captive well,And held, alas! too well the captor-dupe;For with one bound the savage fled amain,Dragging horse, Friar, down the lonely plain.Down the arroyo, out across the mead,By heath and hollow, sped the flying maid,Dragging behind her still the panting steedAnd helpless Friar, who in vain essayedTo cut the lasso or to check his speed.He felt himself beyond all human aid,And trusted to the saints – and, for that matter,To some weak spot in Felipe's riata.Alas! the lasso had been duly blessed,And, like baptism, held the flying wretch —A doctrine that the priest had oft expressed —Which, like the lasso, might be made to stretchBut would not break; so neither could divestThemselves of it, but, like some awful fetch,The holy Friar had to recognizeThe image of his fate in heathen guise.He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow;He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill;He saw the gopher standing in his burrow;He saw the squirrel scampering at his will; —He saw all this, and felt no doubt how thoroughThe contrast was to his condition; stillThe squaw kept onward to the sea, till nightAnd the cold sea-fog hid them both from sight.The morning came above the serried coast,Lighting the snow-peaks with its beacon fires,Driving before it all the fleet-winged hostOf chattering birds above the Mission spires,Filling the land with light and joy – but mostThe savage woods with all their leafy lyres;In pearly tints and opal flame and fireThe morning came, but not the holy Friar.Weeks passed away. In vain the Fathers soughtSome trace or token that might tell his story;Some thought him dead, or, like Elijah, caughtUp to the heavens in a blaze of glory.In this surmise some miracles were wroughtOn his account, and souls in purgatoryWere thought to profit from his intercession;In brief, his absence made a "deep impression."A twelvemonth passed; the welcome Spring once moreMade green the hills beside the white-faced Mission,Spread her bright dais by the western shore,And sat enthroned – a most resplendent vision.The heathen converts thronged the chapel doorAt morning mass, when, says the old tradition,A frightful whoop throughout the church resounded,And to their feet the congregation bounded.A tramp of hoofs upon the beaten course,Then came a sight that made the bravest quail:A phantom Friar on a spectre horse,Dragged by a creature decked with horns and tail.By the lone Mission, with the whirlwind's force,They madly swept, and left a sulphurous trail —And that was all – enough to tell the storyAnd leave unblessed those souls in purgatory.And ever after, on that fatal dayThat Friar Pedro rode abroad lassoing,A ghostly couple came and went awayWith savage whoop and heathenish hallooing,Which brought discredit on San Luis Rey,And proved the Mission's ruin and undoing;For ere ten years had passed, the squaw and FriarPerformed to empty walls and fallen spire.The Mission is no more; upon its wallsThe golden lizards slip, or breathless pauseStill as the sunshine brokenly that fallsThrough crannied roof and spider-webs of gauze;No more the bell its solemn warning calls —A holier silence thrills and overawes;And the sharp lights and shadows of to-dayOutline the Mission of San Luis Rey.Bret Harte.

TAM O' SHANTER

When chapman billies leave the street,And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,As market-days are wearing late,An' folk begin to tak the gate;While we sit bousing at the nappy,An' getting fou and unco happy,We thinkna on the lang Scots miles,The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,That lie between us and our hame,Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,Gathering her brows like gathering storm,Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.This truth fand honest Tam O' Shanter,As he frae Ayr ae night did canter(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,For honest men and bonnie lasses).O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;That frae November till October,Ae market-day thou was nae sober;That ilka melder, wi' the miller,Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.She prophesied that, late or soon,Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon;Or catched wi' warlocks i' the mirk,By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,To think how mony counsels sweet,How mony lengthened, sage advices,The husband frae the wife despises!But to our tale: Ae market-night,Tam had got planted unco right;Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;They had been fou for weeks thegither.The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter;And ay the ale was growing better:The landlady and Tam grew gracious,Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and precious:The souter tauld his queerest stories;The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:The storm without might rair and rustle,Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.Care, mad to see a man sae happy,E'en drowned himself amang the nappy!As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure:Kings may be blessed, but Tam was glorious,O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!But pleasures are like poppies spread,You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;Or like the snow falls in the river,A moment white, then melts forever;Or like the borealis race,That flit ere you can point their place;Or like the rainbow's lovely formEvanishing amid the storm.Nae man can tether time or tide; —The hour approaches Tam maun ride;That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,That dreary hour he mounts his beast on;And sic a night he taks the road in,As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;The rattling showers rose on the blast;The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed;Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed:That night, a child might understand,The Deil had business on his hand.Well mounted on his gray mare, Meg, —A better never lifted leg, —Tam skelpit on through dub and mire,Despising wind and rain and fire;Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet;Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares,Lest bogles catch him unawares;Kirk Alloway was drawing nigh,Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.By this time he was cross the ford,Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored;And past the birks and meikle-stane,Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;And through the whins, and by the cairn,Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn:And near the thorn aboon the well,Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel.Before him Doon pours all his floods;The doubling storm roars through the woods;The lightnings flash from pole to pole;Near and more near the thunders roll:When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,Kirk Alloway seemed in a bleeze;Through ilka bore the beams were glancing;And loud resounded mirth and dancing.Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!What dangers thou canst make us scorn!Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;Wi' usquebae, we'll face the Devil!The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle,Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle,But Maggie stood right sair astonished,Till by the heel and hand admonished,She ventured forward on the light;And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!Warlocks and witches in a dance;Nae cotillon brent new frae France,But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,Put life and mettle in their heels.At winnock-bunker in the east,There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,To gie them music was his charge:He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,Till roof and rafters a' did dirl, —Coffins stood round, like open presses,That shawed the dead in their last dresses;And by some devilish cantrip sleight,Each in its cauld hand held a light, —By which heroic Tam was ableTo note upon the haly table,A murderers's banes in gibbet airns;Two span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;A thief, new cutted fra a rape,Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted;Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted;A garter which a babe had strangled;A knife a father's throat had mangled,Whom his ain son o' life bereft —The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out,Wi' lies seamed like a beggar's clout;And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck,Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk:Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.As Tammie glowered, amazed, and curious,The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;The piper loud and louder blew;The dancers quick and quicker flew;They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleckit,Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,And coost her duddies to the wark,And linket at it in her sark.Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queansA' plump and strapping in their teens:Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen;Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies,For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!But withered beldams, auld and droll,Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,Lowping an' flinging on a crummock —I wonder did na turn thy stomach.But Tam kenned what was what fu' brawlie.There was ae winsome wench and walie,That night inlisted in the core(Lang after kenned on Carrick shore!For monie a beast to dead she shot,And perished monie a bonnie boat,And shook baith meikle corn and bearAnd kept the country-side in fear),Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn,That while a lassie she had worn,In longitude tho' sorely scanty,It was her best, and she was vauntie.Ah! little kenned thy reverend grannieThat sark she coft for her wee Nannie,Wi' twa pund Scots (twas a' her riches),Wad ever graced a dance o' witches!But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r;Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;To sing how Nannie lap and flang,(A souple jad she was and strang!)And how Tam stood, like ane bewitched,And thought his very een enriched.Ev'n Satan glowered, and fidged fu' fain,And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main;Till first ae caper, syne anither,Tam tint his reason a' thegither,And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"And in an instant a' was dark;And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,When out the hellish legion sallied.As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,When plundering herds assail their byke;As open pussie's mortal foes,When pop! she starts before their nose;As eager runs the market-crowd,When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;So Maggie runs, – the witches follow,Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow.Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'lt get thy fairin'!In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin!In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' —Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,And win the key-stane of the brig;There at them thou thy tail may toss, —A running stream they dare na cross.But ere the key-stane she could make,The fient a tail she had to shake;For Nannie, far before the rest,Hard upon noble Maggie prest,And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;But little wist she Maggie's mettle —Ae spring brought off her master hale,But left behind her ain gray tail:The carlin claught her by the rump,And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,Ilk man and mother's son take heed;Whene'er to drink you are inclined,Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.Robert Burns.

THE WILD HUNTSMAN

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 brush, the brier, the brake;While answering hound, and horn, and steed,The mountain echoes startling wake.The beams of God's own hallowed dayHad painted yonder spire with gold,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,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 unhallowed noise."To-day, the ill-omened 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 bell, and books, and mysteries."The Wildgrave spurred his ardent steed,And, launching 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-browed friend;Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!"The Wildgrave spurred his courser light,O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill;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,"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.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!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,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,"Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!"So said, so done: – A single boundClears the poor laborer'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 preyScours 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;Amid the flock's domestic herdHis 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; —"O spare, thou noble Baron, spareThese herds, a widow's little all;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."Unmannered dog! To stop my sportVain 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 appall, —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.But man and horse, and horn and hound,Fast rattling on his traces go;The sacred chapel rung aroundWith, "Hark away! and, holla, ho!"All mild, amid the route profane,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,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,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!"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 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,In vain to call: for not a soundCould from his anxious lips be borne.He listens for his trusty hounds;No distant baying reached 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.High o'er the sinner's humbled headAt length the solemn silence broke;And, from a cloud of swarthy red,The awful voice of thunder spoke."Oppressor of creation fair!Apostate Spirits' 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;And let thy fate instruct the proud,God's meanest creature is his child."'Twas hushed: – One flash, of sombre glare,With yellow tinged the forests brown;Uprose the Wildgrave's bristling hair,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.Earth heard the call; – her entrails rend;From yawning rifts, with many a yell,Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascendThe misbegotten dogs of hell.What ghastly Huntsman next arose,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;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;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.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 tearFor human pride, for human woe,When, at his midnight mass, he hearsThe infernal cry of "Holla, ho!"Bürger's Wilde Jäger. Tr. Walter Scott.