On, right on through the forest land, Nor man, nor maid, nor child was seen-- Not even a dog. The air was still; The blackened hut they turned to see, And spied charred benches on the green; A squirrel sprang from the rotting mill Whence Mosby sallied late, brave blood to spill. By worn-out fields they cantered on-- Drear fields amid the woodlands wide; By cross-roads of some olden time, In which grew groves; by gate-stones down-- Grassed ruins of secluded pride: A strange lone land, long past the prime, Fit land for Mosby or for crime. The brook in the dell they pass. One peers Between the leaves: “Ay, there’s the place-- There, on the oozy ledge--’twas there We found the body (Blake’s you know); Such whirlings, gurglings round the face-- Shot drinking! Well, in war all’s fair-- So Mosby says. The bough--take care!” Hard by, a chapel. Flower-pot mould Danked and decayed the shaded roof; The porch was punk; the clapboards spanned With ruffled lichens gray or green; Red coral-moss was not aloof; And mid dry leaves green dead-man’s-hand Groped toward that chapel in Mosby-land. They leave the road and take the wood, And mark the trace of ridges there-- A wood where once had slept the farm-- A wood where once tobacco grew Drowsily in the hazy air, And wrought in all kind things a calm-- Such influence, Mosby! bids disarm. To ease even yet the place did woo-- To ease which pines unstirring share, For ease the weary horses sighed: Halting, and slackening girths, they feed, Their pipes they light, they loiter there; Then up, and urging still the Guide, On, and after Mosby ride. This Guide in frowzy coat of brown, And beard of ancient growth and mould, Bestrode a bony steed and strong, As suited well with bulk he bore-- A wheezy man with depth of hold Who jouncing went. A staff he swung-- A wight whom Mosby’s wasp had stung. Burnt out and homeless--hunted long! That wheeze he caught in autumn-wood Crouching (a fat man) for his life, And spied his lean son ’mong the crew That probed the covert. Ah! black blood Was his ’gainst even child and wife-- Fast friends to Mosby. Such the strife. A lad, unhorsed by sliding girths, Strains hard to readjust his seat Ere the main body show the gap ’Twixt them and the read-guard; scrub-oaks near He sidelong eyes, while hands move fleet; Then mounts and spurs. One drop his cap-- “Let Mosby fine!” nor heeds mishap. A gable time-stained peeps through trees: “You mind the fight in the haunted house? That’s it; we clenched them in the room-- An ambuscade of ghosts, we thought, But proved sly rebels on a house! Luke lies in the yard.” The chimneys loom: Some muse on Mosby--some on doom.