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 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 blood-hounds trace; O'er moss and moor, unwearied still, The furious Earl pursues the chase. Full lowly did the herdsman fall;— "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. "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, 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 God'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, 66 Holy or not, or right or wrong, Thy altar, and its rites, 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, 66 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, 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 God! Scourge of the poor! The measure of thy cup 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 hush'd:-One flash, of sombre glare, With yellow tinged the forests brown; Uprose 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; And louder, louder, louder still, Brought storm and tempest on its wing. Earth heard the call ;-herentrails rend; From yawning rifts, with many a yell, Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend 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 With bloody fangs, and eager cry; At midnight's witching hour, ascend. THE FIRE-KING. "The blessings of the evil Genii, which are curses, were upon him."-Eastern Tale. [1801.] This ballad was written at the request of Mr. LEWIS, to be inserted in his Tales of Wonder.* It is the third in a series of four ballads, on the subject of Elementary Spirits. The story is, however, partly historical; for it is recorded, that, during the struggles of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem, a Knight-Templar, called Saint-Alban, deserted to the Saracens, and defeated the Christians in many combats, till he was finally routed and slain, in a conflict with King Baldwin, under the walls of Jerusalem. BOLD knights and fair dames, to my harp give an ear, Of love, and of war, and of wonder to hear; And you haply may sigh, in the midst of your glee, At the tale of Count Albert, and fair Rosalie. * Published in 1801. O see you that castle, so strong and so high? “Now palmer, grey palmer, O tell unto me, "O well goes the warfare by Galilee's wave, For the Heathen have lost, and the Christians have won.' A fair chain of gold 'mid her ringlets there hung; O'er the palmer's grey locks the fair chain has she flung: "O palmer, grey palmer, this chain be thy fee, For the news thou hast brought from the Holy Countrie. "And palmer, good palmer, by Galilee's wave, O saw ye Count Albert, the gentle and brave? When the Crescent went back, and the Red-cross rush'd on, O saw ye him foremost on Mount Lebanon?" "O lady, fair lady, the tree green it grows ; Your castle stands strong, and your hopes soar on high; "The green boughs they wither, the thunderbolt falls, O she's ta'en a horse, should be fleet at her speed ; "O Christian, brave Christian, my love would'st thou be, "And, next, in the cavern, where burns evermore And, last, thou shalt aid us with counsel and hand, He has thrown by his helmet, and cross-handled sword, And in the dread cavern, deep deep under ground, Again in the cavern, deep deep under ground, He watch'd the lone night, while the winds whistled round; Scarce pass'd he the archway, the threshold scarce trode, And, borne on the blast, came the dread Fire-King. In his hand a broad falchion blue-glimmer'd through smoke, Count Albert has arm'd him the Paynim among, Though his heart it was false, yet his arm it was strong; And the Red-cross wax'd faint, and the Crescent came on, From the day he commanded on Mount Lebanon. From Lebanon's forests to Galilee's wave, The sands of Samaar drank the blood of the brave; The war-cymbals clatter'd, the trumpets replied, So fell was the dint, that Count Albert stoop'd low |