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!"
A heedless wretch has crossed 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 blessings crowned; See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, A husbandman, with toil embrowned;
"O mercy, mercy, noble lord! Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, "Earned by the sweat these brows have poured, 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 rung his bugle-horn, "Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!"
So said, so done:—A single bound Clears the poor laborer's humble pale; Wild 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 appeared; He seeks the shelter of the crowd; Amid the flock's domestic herd His harmless head he hopes to shroud.