Who was each stranger, left and right,
Well may I guess but dare not tell;
The right-hand steed was silver white,
The left, the swarthy hue of hell.
The right-hand horseman, young and fair,
His smile was like the morn of May;
The left, from eye of tawny glare,
Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray.
He waved his huntsman's cap on high,
Cried, 'Welcome, welcome, noble lord!
What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,
To match the princely chase afford?'
'Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell,'
Cried the fair youth with silver voice;
'And for devotion's choral swell,
Exchange this rude unhallow'd noise;
'To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear,
Yon bell yet summons to the fane;
To-day the warning Spirit hear,
To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.'
'Away, and sweep the glades along!'
The sable hunter hoarse replies;
'To muttering monks leave matin song,
And bells, and books, and mysteries.'
The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed,
And, launching forward with a bound,
'Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede,
Would leave the jovial horn and hound?
'Hence, if our manly sport offend!
With pious fools go chant and pray;
Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd friend
Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!'
The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser light,
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill;
And on the left and on the right,
Each stranger horseman follow'd still.
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!'