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

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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 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 !
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 blessing 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 rang his bugle horn,

"Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!”.

So said, so done; a single bound

Clears the poor labourer's humble pale; While 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 appeared;
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 bloodhounds 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, spare
These 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 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 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 around

With, "Hark away; and, holla, ho!

All mild, amid the rout 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 rights, I spurn,

Not sacred martyr's sacred song,

Nor 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 reigned 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.