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,

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 enbrown'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.”

M

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 madd'ning throng.

Again up roused, 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;
"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 murd'rous cries the stag appal, Again he starts new-nerv'd 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 route 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 rights 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 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.