The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 34

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 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 blessing crown'd; See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, A husbandman, with toil embrown'd.

'O mercy, mercy, n.o.ble 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.

'Away, thou hound! so basely born!

Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!'

Then loudly rang his bugle horn, 'Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!'

So said, so done; a single bound Clears the poor labourer's humble pale; While 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 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 appear'd; 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.

Full lowly did the herdsman fall; 'O spare, thou n.o.ble 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.

'Unmanner'd 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 appal,-- Again he starts new-nerved by fear.

With blood besmear'd, and white with foam, While big the tears of anguish pour, He seeks amid the forest's gloom The humble hermit's hallow'd 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 pour'd his prayer; 'Forbear with blood G.o.d's house to stain; Revere His altar, and forbear!

'The meanest brute has rights to plead, Which, wrong'd by cruelty or pride, Draw vengeance on the ruthless head;-- Be warn'd 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' sainted song, Not G.o.d 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 clamour of the chase was gone; For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound, A deadly silence reign'd 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 reach'd 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' harden'd tool!

Scorner of G.o.d, scourge of the poor!

The measure of thy cup is full.

'Be chas'd forever through the wood: Forever roam the affrighted wild; And let thy fate instruct the proud, G.o.d's meanest creature is His child.'

Twas hush'd: one flash of sombre glare With yellow tinged the forest's brown; Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, And horror chill'd each nerve and bone.

Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill; A rising wind began to sing; A 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, Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend The misbegotten dogs of h.e.l.l.

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 h.e.l.l.

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!'

_Sir W. Scott_

CII

_TO DAFFODILS_

Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early rising sun Has not attain'd his noon: Stay, stay, Until the hastening day Has run But to the even-song; And having prayed together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you; We have as short a spring: As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing: We die, As your hours do; and dry Away Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew, Ne'er to be found again.

_R. Herrick_

CIII

_THE HOMES OF ENGLAND_