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"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!”

“'Twas hushed: one flash, of som

bre glare, With yellow tinged the forests

brown; Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling

hair, And horror chilled each nerve and

bone,

rill;

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, were gone; For hoofs, and howls, and bugle

sound, A deadly silence reigned alone.

Cold poured the sweat in freezing

A rising wind began to sing; And louder, louder, louder still, Brought storm and tempest on its

wing.

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 reached his ears; His courser, rooted to the ground, The quickening spur unmindful

bears.

Earth heard the call;- her entrails

rend; From yawning rifts, with many a

yell, Mixed with sulphureous flames, as

cend 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, lo!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 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 Spirit's hardened tooi! Scorner of God! Scourge of the

poor! The measure of thy cup is full.

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, as

cend.

“Be chased forever through 'the

wood; Forever roam the affrighted wild; And let thy fate instruct the preud. God's meanest creature is his

child."

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 tear

For human pride, for human woe, When, at his midnight mass, he hears The infernal cry of, “ Holla, ho!”

Scott: trans. from BÜRGER.

ALICE BRAND.

MERRY it is in the good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are

singing, When the deer sweeps by, and the

hounds are in cry, And the hunter's horn is ringing.

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green

wood, So blithe Lady Alice is singing; On the beech's pride, and oak's

brown side, Lord Richard's axe is ringing. Up spoke the moody Elfin King,

Who woned within the hill, Like wind in the porch of a ruined

church, His voice was ghostly shrill. “Why sounds yon stroke on beech

and oak, Our moonlight circle's screen ? Or who comes here to chase the deer,

Beloved of our Elfin Queen ?
Or who may dare on wold to wear

The fairies' fatal green?

“O Alice Brand, my native land

Is lost for love of you; And we must hold by wood and

wold, As outlaws wont to do.

“Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,

For thou wert christened man; For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,

For muttered word or ban."

“O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so

bright. And 'twas all for thine eyes so

blue, That on the night of our luckless

flight, Thy brother bold I slew.

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green

wood, Though the birds have stilled their

singing; The evening blaze doth Alice raise,

And Richard is fagots bringing.

“Now must I teach to hew the

beech The hand that held the glaive, For leaves to spread our lowly bed,

And stakes to fence our cave.

Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf,

Before Lord Richard stands, And, as he crossed and blessed him

self, “I fear not sign," quoth the grisly

elf, " That is made with bloody

hands."

But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,

That woman void of fear, And if there's blood upon his hand,

'Tis but the blood of deer."

“ And for vest of pall, thy fingers

small, That wont on harp to stray, A cloak must shear from the slaugh

tered deer, To keep the cold away." "O Richard ! if my brother died,

'Twas but a fatal chance; For darkling was the battle tried,

And fortune sped the lance. “If pall and vair no more I wear,

Nor thou the crimson sheen, As warm, we'll say, is the russet

gray, As gay the forest green. “ And, Richard, if our lot be hard,

And lost thy native land,
Still Alice has her own Richard,

And he liis Alice Brand."

“Now loud thou liest, thou bold of

mood! It cleaves into his hand, The stain of thine own kindly blood,

The blood of Ethert Brand."

Then forward stepped she, Alice

Brand, And made the holy sign, “ And if there's blood on Richard

hand, A spotless hand is mine.

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