“To-day th’ ill-omened chase forbear;
     Yon bell yet summons to the fane: 
     To-day the warning spirit hear,
     To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.”

     The Wildgrave spurred 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-brown friend,
     Haloo, haloo, 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 grasps 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 crowned;
     See, prostrate at the Wildgrave’s feet,
     A husbandman with toil embrowned.

     “Oh, mercy! mercy! noble lord;
     Spare the poor’s pittance,” was his cry;
     “Earned by the sweat these brows have poured
     In scorching hours of fierce July.”

     “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.

     Full lowly did the herdsman fall: 
     “Oh, spare, thou noble baron, spare;
     These herds, a widow’s little all;
     These flocks, an orphan’s fleecy care.”

     “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 murd’rous cries the stag appal,
     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 bow’r.