O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill, His track the steady blood-hounds trace; O'er moss and moor, unwearied still, The furious Earl pursues the chase.
Full lowly did the herdsman fall;— "O spare, thou noble Baron, spare These herds, a widow's little all; These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care!"—
Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads, The left still cheering to the prey; The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds, But furious keeps the onward way.
"Unmannered dog! To stop my sport Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, Though human spirits, of thy sort, Were tenants of these carrion kine!"—
Again he winds his bugle-horn, "Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!" And through the herd, in ruthless scorn, He cheers his furious hounds to go.
In heaps the throttled victims fall; Down sinks their mangled herdsman near; The murderous cries the stag appall,— Again he starts, new-nerved by fear.
With blood besmeared, and white with foam, While big the tears of anguish pour, He seeks, amid the forest's gloom, The humble hermit's hallowed bower.
But man and horse, and horn and hound, Fast rattling on his traces go; The sacred chapel rung around With, "Hark away! and, holla, ho!"
All mild, amid the route profane, The holy hermit poured his prayer; "Forbear with blood God's house to stain; Revere his altar, and forbear!"
"The meanest brute has rights to plead, Which, wronged by cruelty, or pride, Draw vengeance on the ruthless head:— Be warned at length, and turn aside."