Still the Fair Horseman anxious pleads; The Black, wild whooping, points the prey:— Alas! the Earl no warning heeds, But frantic keeps the forward way.
"Holy or not, or right or wrong, Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn; Not sainted martyrs' sacred song, Not God himself, shall make me turn!"
He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, "Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!"— But off, on whirlwind's pinions borne, The stag, the hut, the hermit, go.
And horse and man, and horn and hound, And clamor of the chase, was gone; For hoofs, and howls, and bugle-sound, A deadly silence reigned alone.
Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around; He strove in vain to wake his horn, In vain to call: for not a sound Could from his anxious lips be borne.
He listens for his trusty hounds; No distant baying reached his ears: His courser rooted to the ground, The quickening spur unmindful bears.
Still dark and darker frown the shades, Dark as the darkness of the grave; And not a sound the still invades, Save what a distant torrent gave.
High o'er the sinner's humbled head At length the solemn silence broke; And, from a cloud of swarthy red, The awful voice of thunder spoke.
"Oppressor of creation fair! Apostate Spirits' hardened tool! Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor! The measure of thy cup is full.
"Be chased forever through the wood; Forever roam the affrighted wild; And let thy fate instruct the proud, God's meanest creature is his child."