Who was each stranger, left and right? Well may I guess, but dare not tell. The right-hand steed was silver-white; The left, the swarthy hue of hell. The right-hand horseman, young and fair, His smile was like the morn of May; The left, from eye of tawny glare, Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray. He waved his huntsman's cap on high, Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord! What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, To match the princely chase, afford?" "Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell," Cried the fair youth with silver voice; "And for devotion's choral swell, Exchange the rude, unhallowed noise. "To-day th' ill-omened chase forbear; Yon bell yet summons to the fane: To-day the warning spirit hear, To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain." The Wildgrave spurred his ardent steed And, launching forward with a bound, "Who for thy drowsy priestlike rede Would leave the jovial horn and hound? "Hence, if our manly sport offend: With pious fools go chant and pray. Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brown friend, Haloo, haloo, and hark away!" The Wildgrave spurred his courser light, O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill, And on the left and on the right Each stranger horseman followed still. Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn, A stag more white than mountain snow; And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn-- "Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!" A heedless wretch has crossed the way-- He grasps the thundering hoofs below; But, live who can, or die who may, Still forward, forward! on they go. See where yon simple fences meet, A field with autumn's blessings crowned; See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, A husbandman with toil embrowned. "Oh, mercy! mercy! noble lord; Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry; "Earned by the sweat these brows have poured In scorching hours of fierce July." "Away, thou hound, so basely born, Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!" Then loudly rung his bugle horn, "Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!" So said, so done--a single bound Clears the poor labourer's humble pale: Wild follows man, and horse, and hound, Like dark December's stormy gale. And man, and horse, and hound, and horn Destructive sweep the field along, While joying o'er the wasted corn Fell famine marks the madd'ning throng. Full lowly did the herdsman fall: "Oh, spare, thou noble baron, spare; These herds, a widow's little all; These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care." "Unmannered dog! To stop my sport Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, Though human spirits of thy sort Were tenants of these carrion kine!"