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Walter Scott - The Wild Huntsman
Work rating: Medium

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.

The beams of God`s own hallow`d day
Had painted yonder spire with gold,
And, called 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 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, 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-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;
A 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;
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 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 hilt,
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, 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.

"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, ho!"

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,
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.

High o`er the sinner`s humbled head
At length the solemn silence broke;
And, from a cloud of swarthy red,
The awful voice of thunder spoke.

"Oppressor of creation fair!
Apostate Spirits` harden`d tool!
Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor!
The measure of thy cup is full.

"Be chased for ever through the wood;
For ever roam the affrighted wild;
And let thy fate instruct the proud,
God`s meanest creature is his child."

`Twas hush`d: — One flash, of sombre glare,
With yellow tinged the forests brown;
Uprose the Wildgrave`s bristling hair,
And horror chill`d each nerve and bone.

Cold pour`d 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,
Mix`d with sulphureous flames, ascend
The 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 cavern`d space,
At midnight`s witching hour, ascend.

This is the horn, and hound, and horse,
That oft the lated peasant hears;
Appall`d, he signs the frequent cross,
When the wild din invades his ears.

The wakeful priest oft drops a tear
For human pride, for human woe,
When, at his midnight mass, he hears
The infernal cry of, "Holla, ho!"
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