He mounts his black steed; like the lightning they fly
And sweep the hush'd forest with snort and with cry.
Loud neighs his black courser; hark his horn, how 'tis swelling!
He chases his comrades, his hounds wildly yelling.
Speed along! speed along! for the race is all ours;
Speed along! speed along! while the midnight still lours;
The spirits of darkness will chase him in scorn,
Who dreads our wild howl, and the shriek of our horn,
Thus yelling and belling they sweep on the wind,
The dread of the pious and reverent mind: