Prepare the stage of night for blood,
And the mind of night for death,
For a spirit trembling in the mud
In an agony for breath.
A terror came upon the saint,
It stripped his spirit bare;
He was sick body standing faint,
Cold sweat and stiffened hair.
He took his terror by the throat
And stamped it underfoot;
Then, far away, the death-horn’s note
Quailed like a screech-owl’s hoot.
Still far away that devil’s horn
Its quavering death-note blew,
But the saint could hear the crackling thorn
That the hounds trod as they drew.
“Lord, it is true,” St. Withiel moaned,
“And the hunt is drawing near!
Devils that Paradise disowned,
They know that I am here.
“And there, O God, a hound gives tongue,
And great hounds quarter dim”—
The saint’s hands to his body clung,
He knew they came for him.
Then close at hand the horn was loud,
Like Peter’s cock of old
For joy that Peter’s soul was cowed,
And Jesus’ body sold.
Then terribly the hounds in cry
Gave answer to the horn;
The saint in terror turned to fly
Before his flesh was torn.
After his body came the hounds,
After the hounds the horse;
Their running crackled with the sounds
Of fire that runs in gorse.
The saint’s breath failed, but still they came:
The hunter cheered them on,
Even as a wind that blows a flame
In the vigil of St. John.