All mild, amid the route profane,
     The holy hermit poured his prayer: 
     “Forbear with blood God’s house to stain: 
     Revere His altar, and forbear!

     “The meanest brute has rights to plead,
     Which, wronged by cruelty or pride,
     Draw vengeance on the ruthless head;
     Be warned 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,
     The clamour of the chase was gone;
     For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound,
     A deadly silence reigned 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.

     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’ hardened 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 hushed:  one flash of sombre glare
     With yellow tinged the forest’s brown;
     Up rose the Wildgrave’s bristling hair,
     And horror chilled each nerve and bone.

     Earth heard the call—­her entrails rend;
     From yawning rifts, with many a yell,
     Mixed 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 hapless 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 caverned space;
     At midnight’s witching hour, ascend.