High upon their snowy horses
On they rush’d; on foot there follow’d
The piqueurs, the leashes holding,
And the pages with the torches.
Many in the wild procession
Seem’d to me well-known. The horseman
In the golden glist’ning armour,—
Was he not the great King Arthur?
And Sir Ogier, he of Denmark,
Wore he not his green and glancing
Coat of ringèd mail, that gave him
All the’ appearance of a frog?
In the long train also saw I
Many intellectual heroes;
There I recognized our Wolfgang,
By his eyes’ exceeding lustre.
Being damn’d by Hengstenberg,
In his grave he cannot slumber,
But his earthly love for hunting
With the heathen throng continues.
By his mouth’s sweet smile I also
Knew again the worthy William,[32]
Whom the Puritans had likewise
Cursed with bitterness; this sinner
Needs must join at night that savage
Army, on a black steed mounted;
On an ass, and close beside him
Rode a man,—and, O good heavens,
By his weary, praying gestures,
By his pious snow-white nightcap,
By his grief of soul, I straightway
Knew our old friend, Francis Horn!
Just for writing commentaries
On the world-child Shakespear, must he
After death, poor fellow, with him
Ride amidst the wild hunt’s tumult!
Ah! he now must ride, poor Francis,
Who to walk was well-nigh frighten’d;
Who ne’er moved, except when praying,
Or when chatting o’er the tea-tray!