Classic Poem

CAPUT XVIII

And it was the time of full moon,
On Saint John the Baptist's eve,
That the spectral hunt went coursing
Through the Spirit-Pass at midnight.

From the witch-nest of Uraka.
From the window, quite distinctly
I could see the ghostly legion
As it sped along the valley.

'Twas a perfect post for viewing,
From above, the hurrying pageant,
And I saw the dead uprisen
Riding forth upon their pleasure.

Crack of whips, hallooing, shouting!
Barking hounds and neighing horses!
Winding horns and merry laughter!
How triumphantly it echoed!

Bounding forward like a vanguard
Flew the strange fantastic quarry:
Stags and boars in herds careering,
The pursuing hounds behind them.

Sportsmen strangely met together
Out of sundered climes and ages;
Hard by Nimrod of Assyria
Rode, for instance, Charles X.

High on milk-white chargers seated,
On they rushed. Piqueurs with leashes
Swift afoot came running after.
And the pages with the torches.

In the wild procession many
Seemed familiar — yonder horseman
In the golden harness gleaming,
Was not he the great King Arthur?

And Sir Ogier, he of Denmark,
Wore he not that iridescent
Coat of mail, in which he glimmered
Like a frog gigantic, greenly?

In the train was many a hero
For his thought and learning famous.
By his glance of genial brightness
I identified our Wolfgang —

For, since Hengstenberg has damned him,
In his grave he cannot slumber,
And with pagans now indulges
In the chase he loved while living.

And I recognised that William
By his smiling mouth and gracious,
Whom the puritanic spirit
Held, no less, as one accursid.

Forth must ride this sinner also,
On a coal-black charger mounted,
While, beside him on a donkey,
Rides a man — — And holy Heaven!

By his meek and pious manner,
And his white and worthy nightcap,
By his anguished soul I knew him,
Knew our former friend, Franz Horn.

For his commentaries written
On that worldling, William Shakespeare,
He must share — the poor old creature —
In that wild, tumultuous hunting!

He must ride, this Franz so peaceful,
Who for walking scarce had courage,
Active only at his prayers,
Or when talking over tea-cups!

With what horror will the spinsters
Whose caresses cheered his leisure
Learn that Franz — their Franz beloved —
Is a wild and reckless hunter!

When they break into a gallop,
Mocking glances fall from William
On the wretched commentator
Trotting after on his donkey.

Weak and pitifully helpless,
Clinging closely to the pommel,
Faithful dead, no less than living,
Still he follows up his author.

There were many ladies also
In that ghostly train fantastic:
Slender nymphs whose youthful bodies
Were a miracle of beauty,

Set astride upon their horses,
Mythologically naked,
But whom ringlets long and flowing,
Like a golden mantle, covered.

On their heads were twisted garlands,
And in gay, abandoned postures,
Backward leaning, bold and merry,
Leafy wands they swung and balanced.

Tightly habited beside them,
Mediaeval damosels
Sat obliquely on their saddles,
On the wrist a chainid falcon.

On their skinny palfreys mounted,
As in parody, behind them
Came a cavalcade of women,
Like comedians, decked, bedizened.

Very lovely were their faces,
If, perchance, a trifle brazen;
And they cried and clamoured madly,
With their rouged and wanton cheeks.

How the echoes rang, rejoicing!
Winding horns and merry laughter!
Bark of dogs and horses neighing!
Crack of whips, hallooing, shouting!