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“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


“ 'Twas hushed: one flash, of som

bre glare, With yellow tinged the forests

brown; Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling

hair, And horror chilled each nerve and


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.

Cold poured the sweat in freezing

rill; A rising wind began to sing; And louder, louder, louder still, Brought storm and tempest on its


And horse and man, and horn and

hound, And clamor of the chase, were 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


He listens for his trusty hounds;

No distant baying reached his ears ; His courser, rooted to the ground, The quickening spur unmindful


Earth heard the call; – her entrails

rend; From yawning rifts, with many a

yell, Mixed with sulphureous flames, as

cend The misbegotten dogs of hell. What ghastly Huntsman next arose,

Well may I guess, but dare not tell: IIis eye like midnight lightning

glows, His steed the swartly hue of hell. The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and

thorn, With many a shriek of helpless

woe; Behind him hound, and horse, and

horn, And,“ Hark away, and holla, lio!With wild Despair's reverted eye, Close, close behind, he marks the

throng, With bloodly fangs, and eager cry;

In frantic fear he scours along.

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 Spirit's hardened tool! Scorner of God! Scourge of the

The measure of thy cup is full.

Still, still shall last the dreadful

chiase, Till time itself shall have an end : By day, they scour earth's caverned

space, At miilnight's witching hour, as


“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."

This is the horn, and hound, and

horse, That oft tiré lated peasant lears; Appalled he signs the frequent cross, When the wild din invades his


The wakeful priest oft drops a tear

For human pride, for human woe, When, at his midnight mass, he hears The infernal cry of, " Holla, ho!”

SCOTT: trans. from BÜRGER.

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green

wood, So blithe Lady Alice is singing; On the beech's pride, and oak’s

brown side,
Lord Richard's axe is ringing.


MERRY it is in the good greenwood, When the mavis and inerle are

singing, When the deer sweeps by, and the

hounds are in cry, And the hunter's horn is ringing.

Up spoke the moody Elfin King,

Who woned within the hill, Like wind in the porch of a ruined

church, His voice was ghostly sluill. "Why sounds yon stroke on beech

and oak, Our moonlight circle's screen? Or who comes here to clase the deer,

Beloved of our Elfin Queen? Or who may dare on wold to wear

The fairies' fatal green? “Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,

For thou wert christened man; For cross or sign thou wilt not fiy,

For muttered word or ban."

“O Alice Brand, my native land

Is lost for love of you; And we must hold by wood and

wold, As outlaws wont to do.

O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so

bright, And 'twas all for thine eyes so

blue, That on the night of our luckless

flight, Thy brother bold I slew.

“Now must I teach to hew the

beech The hand that held the glaive, For leaves to spread our lowly bed,

And stakes to fence our cave.

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green.

wood, Though the birds have stilled their

singing; The evening blaze doth Alice raise,

And Richard is fagots bringing. Up Urgan starts, that bideous dwarf,

Before Lord Richarı stands, And, as he crossed and blessed him

self, “I fear not sign," quoth the grily

elf, " That is made with bloody


“And for vest of pall, thy fingers

small, That wont on harp to stray, A cloak must shear from the slaugh

tered deer, To keep the cold away.”

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But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,

That woman void of fear, “ And if there's blood upon his hand,

'Tis but the blood of deer.''

“O) Richard ! if my brother died,

'Twas but a fatal chance; For darkling was the battle tried,

And fortune sped the lance.

“Now loud thou liest, thou bold of

mood! It cleaves unto his hand. The stain of thine own kindly blood,

The blood of Ethert Brand.”

“If pall and vair no more I wear,

Nor thou the crimson sheen, As warm, we'll say, is the russet

glav, As gay the forest green. “And, Richard, if our lot be hard,

And lost thy native land,
Still Alice has her own Richard,

And he his Alice Brand."

Then forward stepped she, Alice

Brand, And made the holy sign, And if there's blood on Richard's

hand, A spotless hand is mine.

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