Come hither, O sexton, O choir, come near
And sing the bride song sweet to hear,
Come priest, and speak the blessing
Ere we our couch are pressing.”

The phantom show it melts like snows;
As if to grant his praying,
An eldritch sound of laughter rose,

But their course knew no delaying.
He never checks his horse's rein,
And through the night they ride amain;
The flashing fire flaught flies,

The sparks from the horse hoofs rise.

How flew to right, how flew to left,
The hills, the trees, the sedges!

How flew to left, to right, to left,

Townlets and towns and hedges!

"Dost fear, my love? The moon shines bright Hurrah! the Dead ride fast by night.

Dost fear, my love, the Dead?"
"Ah, let them rest, the Dead."

See there, see there, on the scaffold's height,
Around the ax and wheel,

A ghostly crew in the moon's gray light

Are dancing a ghastly reel.

"Ha, ha, ye foot it lustily,

Come hither, old friends, and follow me.
To dance shall be your lot

While I loose her girdle knot."

And the gallows' crew they rushed behind
On the black steed's fiery traces,

As the leaves that whirl in the eddying wind,
Or dust the hurricane chases.

He never checks his horse's rein,

And through the night they ride amain;

The flashing fire flaught flies,

The sparks from the horse hoofs rise.

On, on, they race by the moon's pale light,
All things seem flying fast,

The heaven, the stars, the earth, the night,
In one wild dream flash past.

"Dost fear, my love? The moon shines bright. Hurrah! The Dead ride fast by night.

Dost fear, my love, the Dead?"
"Alas, let be the Dead."

"Soon will the cock's shrill trumpet blare, The sand will soon be run;

O steed! I scent the morning air;

Press on, brave steed, press on.

We have won to our goal through rain and mire, The bride bed shivers with sweet desire,

And dead folk ride apace.

We have reached the trysting place."

To a portal latticed with iron grate

He galloped with loosened rein,

And lightly he struck on that grewsome gate — Burst bolt and bar in twain !

Its iron jaws are split in sunder,

Over the graves the horse hoofs thunder,
And shadowy gravestones loom

I' the moonlit churchyard gloom.

In a second's space came a wonder strange,
A hideous thing to tell.

The rider's face knew a ghastly change,
The flesh from the white bones fell.
A featureless skull glares out on her,
No hair to wave, and no lips to stir,
She is clasped by a skeleton!
Still the weird ride goes on.

The coal-black stallion snorts and rears,
Its hoofs dash sparks of fire,

Beneath the riders it disappears,

They have won to their desire.

Wild shrieks on the night wind come and go,
Wild laughs rise up from the graves below.
The maiden's heart at strife,

Struggled 'twixt death and life.

Ill spirits ring them in crazy dance,
And the dance grows ever dafter;
They point at her in the moon's gray glance,
And howl with eldritch laughter:-

"Though thy heart be broken beneath his rod, God in heaven is God.

Rebel not.

Thou art ours for eternity..

His grace with thy poor soul be!"

THE WILD HUNTSMAN.

IMITATED From Bürger BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

[For biographical sketch, see page 107.]

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 brush, the brier, the brake: While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake.

The beams of God's own hallowed day

Had painted yonder spire with gold,

And, calling sinful man to pray,

Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled:

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 clanging knell,"

Cried the fair youth, with silver voice; "And for devotion's choral swell

Exchange the rude unhallowed noise.

"To-day the ill-omened 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 spurred his ardent steed, And, launching forward with a bound, "Who for thy drowsy priestlike rede,

66

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-browed friend; Halloo, halloo! 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.

Upsprings, 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 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 crowned; See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet,

A husbandman with toil embrowned:

"O mercy, mercy, noble lord!

Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, "Earned by the sweat these brows have poured, In scorching hour of fierce July."—

And man and horse, and hound and horn,
Destructive sweep the field along;

While, joying o'er the wasted corn,

Fell Famine marks the maddening throng.

Again uproused, 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 appeared;

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 bloodhounds trace;

O'er moss and moor, unwearied still,
The furious Earl pursues the chase.