A heedless wretch has cross'd the way;
He gasps, the thundering hoofs below;
But live who can, or die who may,
Still 'Forward, forward!' on they go.
See where yon simple fences meet,
A field with autumn's blessing crown'd;
See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet,
A husbandman, with toil embrown'd.
'O mercy, mercy, noble lord!
Spare the poor's pittance,' was his cry,
'Earn'd by the sweat these brows have pour'd,
In scorching hour of fierce July.'
Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads,
The left still cheering to the prey;
The impetuous Earl no warning heeds,
But furious holds the onward way.
'Away, thou hound! so basely born!
Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!'
Then loudly rang his bugle horn,
'Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!'
So said, so done; a single bound
Clears the poor labourer's humble pale;
While 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 bloodhounds trace;
O'er moss and moor, unwearied still,
The furious Earl pursues the chase.