Full lowly did the herdsman fall;

66

"O spare, thou noble Baron, spare These herds, a widow's little all;

These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care!"

Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads,
The left still cheering to the prey;
The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds,
But furious keeps the onward way.

"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 murderous cries the stag appall, — 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 bower.

But man and horse, and horn and hound,

Fast rattling on his traces go;

The sacred chapel rung around

With, "Hark away! and holla, ho!"

All mild, amid the rout 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 rites, I spurn; Not sainted martyrs' sacred song,

Nor 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,
And clamor 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.

He listens for his trusty hounds;

No distant baying reached his ears: His courser, rooted to the ground,

The quickening spur unmindful bears.

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 Spirits' hardened tool! Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor! The measure of thy cup is full.

"Be chased forever through the wood; Forever roam the affrighted wild; And let thy fate instruct the proud,

God's meanest creature is His child."

'Twas hushed. - One flash of somber glare With yellow tinged the forests brown; Uprose the Wildgrave's bristling hair,

And horror chilled each nerve and bone.

Cold poured the sweat in freezing rill;
A rising wind began to sing;
And louder, louder, louder still,

Brought storm and tempest on its wing.

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 helpless 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.

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!"

BOB ACRES' DUEL.

BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

(From "The Rivals.")

[RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN: A British dramatist; born in Dublin, September 30, 1751; died in London, July 7, 1816. His father was an actor, his mother the author of several plays, and his mind naturally turned toward the drama. His first play, "The Rivals" (1774), was performed January 17, 1775, at Covent Garden Theater, and at first met with utter failure. It was later revised and reproduced, and was successful. Among his other plays are: "St. Patrick's Day; or, the Scheming Lieutenant," first produced May 2, 1775; the book of a comic opera, "Duenna," " November 21, 1775; "A Trip to Scarborough," February 24, 1775; "The School for Scandal," May 8, 1777; and "The Critic," October 30, 1779. In 1776 he succeeded David Garrick as manager of the Drury Lane Theater, and in 1780 he entered politics as a member of Parliament. He subsequently neglected his dramatic work for politics, was financially ruined, and finally arrested for debt.]

Present: BOB ACRES. Enter Sir LUCIUS O'TRIGGER.

Sir Lucius - Mr. Acres, I am delighted to embrace you.
Acres My dear Sir Lucius, I kiss your hands.

Sir Lucius-Pray, my friend, what has brought you so suddenly to Bath?

Acres Faith! I have followed Cupid's Jack-o'-lantern, and find myself in a quagmire at last. In short, I have been very ill used, Sir Lucius. I don't choose to mention names, but look on me as a very ill-used gentleman.

Sir Lucius - Pray what is the case? I ask no names.

Acres Mark me, Sir Lucius, I fall as deep as need be in love with a young lady - her friends take my part - I follow her to Bath-send word of my arrival; and receive answer that the lady is to be otherwise disposed of. This, Sir Lucius, I call being ill used.

you

Sir Lucius - Very ill, upon my conscience. — Pray, can divine the cause of it?

Acres - Why, there's the matter, she has another lover,

one Beverley, who, I am told, is now in Bath. - Odds slanders and lies! he must be at the bottom of it.

Sir Lucius-A rival in the case, is there? — and he has supplanted you unfairly?

you think

Acres - Unfairly! to be sure he has. He never could have done it fairly.

me.

Sir Lucius - Then sure you know what is to be done!
Acres Not I, upon my soul!

Sir Lucius-We wear no swords here, but you understand

Acres - What! fight him?

Sir Lucius - Ay, to be sure: what can I mean else?

Acres But he has given me no provocation.

Sir Lucius-Now, I think he has given you the greatest provocation in the world. Can a man commit a more heinous offense against another than to fall in love with the same woman? Oh, by my soul! it is the most unpardonable breach of friendship.

Acres Breach of friendship! ay, ay; but I have no acquaintance with this man. I never saw him in my life.

Sir Lucius - That's no argument at all-he has the less right then to take such a liberty.

Acres Gad, that's true-I grow full of anger, Sir Lucius !

-I fire apace! Odds hilts and blades! I find a man may

have a deal of valor in him, and not know it! But couldn't I contrive to have a little right on my side?

Sir Lucius - What the devil signifies right, when your honor is concerned? Do you think Achilles, or my little Alexander the Great, ever inquired where the right lay? No, by my soul, they drew their broadswords, and left the lazy sons. of peace to settle the justice of it.

Acres Your words are a grenadier's march to my heart! I believe courage must be catching! I certainly do feel a kind of valor rising as it were a kind of courage, as I may say.

Odds flints, pans, and triggers! I'll challenge him directly.

Sir Lucius - Ah, my little friend, if I had Blunderbuss Hall here, I could show you a range of ancestry, in the O'Trigger line, that would furnish the new room; every one of whom had killed his man!-For though the mansion house and dirty acres have slipped through my fingers, I thank Heaven our honor and the family pictures are as fresh as ever.

Acres Oh, Sir Lucius! I have had ancestors too! every