Classic Poem

LORD HUBERT lived, long years ago,
In good King Pepin's reign,
The lightest heart and heaviest hand
In all broad Aquitain.

He loved his home, he loved his king,
He loved a winsome face,
He loved right well his noble self;
But better loved the chase.

The foremost in the knightly joust,
The first in hunting train;
The bravest brand in all the land
Was crossed with his in vain.

Small favorites with Hubert bold
Were bookish clerk and priest;
And sore he chafed when sport was barred
By frequent fast and feast.

'T was in the blessed Lenten time,
The holiest week of all;
The silence of the Day of Woe
Fell like a funeral pall.

No joy-bell rang, no light was there,
Nor sight or sound of mirth;
The sadness of the Sacrifice
Was on the mourning earth.

By holy men in penance garb
The shrouded cross was borne,
When o'er the hill rang loud and shrill
A merry bugle-horn.

The baying of a hound was heard
Along the distant road;
With bow and spear and hunting gear
Lord Hubert reckless strode.

With mock obeisance spake the knight:
" Good father, ban me not;
No saint nor Pharisee am I,
But sinful man, God wot.

" But deeds of grace may wash out sin —
I pledge a hunter's word,
The fattest buck in gloomy Hartz
This night shall grace thy board. "

Then answered mild the holy man:
" Forbear the wanton crime
Of him who sheddeth sinless blood
In holy Easter time.

" An erring servant of the Lord
Nor ban nor curse may say,
But may the gentle Christ forgive
Thy foul affront, I pray. "

The town is passed; the forest deep
Is still and cold and gray;
So silent, you might deem the brutes
Revered the sacred day.

Now deeper, deeper grows the wood,
And darker grows the gloom;
And deathly chills assault the heart,
Like breezes from the tomb.

The broken twig hangs motionless,
The budding leaf is still;
The sunless winter of the North
Is not more dark and chill.

Lord Hubert bore the stoutest heart
In all broad Aquitain,
Yet, but for very shame, had wished
Him fairly home again.

" Good faith! " he cried, " the holy man
Shall venison lack to-day; "
When lo! before his startled gaze
A quarry stood at bay.

Stout Hubert drew a deadly shaft, —
His aim was true and keen;
And fairer mark a hunter's skill
Had seldom found, I ween.

He drew the arrow to the head, —
His aim was keen and true;
Then sudden fell the bow and shaft,
And fell stout Hubert too.

For mid the branching antlers there,
Upon a forehead white,
The symbol of the gentle Christ
Was marked in dazzling light.

At holy cross on beastly front
The huntsman pressed the sod,
And heard, like him of Israel,
The accents of a God.

The joy-bells rang on Easter morn;
The good folk held the feast,
And watched the conscious rising sun
Dance gladly in the East.

Lord Hubert knelt in humbled heart,
And prayed for grace to teach
The lesson taught by Heaven to him
Through brute's inspired speech:

That gentle sport in season meet
Awakes not Heaven's wrath;
But woe the wretch for sinless life
Who no compassion hath;

That bird and beast are in His care,
Whose lives are but a span,
And he that wastes offendeth God,
Who gave the breath to man.

And honest sportsmen evermore
Are merciful indeed;
For good Saint Hubert blesseth him
Who heeds his gentle creed.