'They drown the clamor of the chase;
Oh! hunt not then to-day,
Nor let a fiend's advice destroy
Thy better angel's sway.'
'Hunt on, hunt on,' his comrade cries,
'Nor heed yon dotard's spell;
What is the bawling quire to us?
Or what the jangling bell?
'Well may the chase delight thee more;
And well may'st learn from me,
How brave, how princely is our sport,
From bigot terrors free.'
'Well said! well said! in thee I own
A hero's kindled fire;
These pious fool'ries move not us,
We reck nor priest, nor quire.
'And thou, believe me, saintlike dolt,
Thy bigot rage is vain;
From prayers and beadrolls, what delight
Can sportsmen hope to gain?'
Still hurry, hurry, on they speed
O'er valley, hill and plain;
And ever at the baron's side
Attend the horsemen twain.
See, panting, see, a milk-white hart
Up-springs from yonder thorn:
'Now swiftly ply both horse and foot;
Now louder wind the horn!'
See, falls a huntsman! see, his limbs
The pangs of death distort!
'Lay there and rot: no caitiff's death
Shall mar our princely sport.'
Light bounds with deftest speed the hart,
Wide o'er the country borne;
Now closer prest a refuge seeks
Where waves the ripening corn.
See, the poor owner of the field
Approach with tearful eyes;
'O pity, pity, good my lords!'
Alas! in vain he cries.