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, calling 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;

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 be low ;

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.