And Sir Ogier, he of Denmark, Wore he not his green and glancing Coat of ringèd mail, that gave him All the’ appearance of a frog? In the long train also saw I Many intellectual heroes; There I recognized our Wolfgang, By his eyes’ exceeding lustre. Being damn’d by Hengstenberg, In his grave he cannot slumber, But his earthly love for hunting With the heathen throng continues. By his mouth’s sweet smile I also Knew again the worthy William,[32] Whom the Puritans had likewise Cursed with bitterness; this sinner Needs must join at night that savage Army, on a black steed mounted; On an ass, and close beside him Rode a man,--and, O good heavens, By his weary, praying gestures, By his pious snow-white nightcap, By his grief of soul, I straightway Knew our old friend, Francis Horn! Just for writing commentaries On the world-child Shakespear, must he After death, poor fellow, with him Ride amidst the wild hunt’s tumult! Ah! he now must ride, poor Francis, Who to walk was well-nigh frighten’d; Who ne’er moved, except when praying, Or when chatting o’er the tea-tray! Would not all the aged maidens, Long accustomed to caress him, Shudder if they came to hear that Francis was a savage huntsman! When he breaks into a gallop, The great William with derision Looks on his poor commentator Who at donkey’s pace goes after, Helplessly and wildly clinging To the pommel of his donkey, Yet in death as well as lifetime Following faithfully his author. Many ladies saw I also In the spirits’ wild procession, Many beauteous nymphs amongst them With their slender, youthful figures. They astraddle sat their horses, Mythologically naked; Yet their long and curling tresses Fell low down, like golden mantles. Garlands on their heads they carried, And with saucy backward-bending Supercilious wanton postures Leafy wands kept ever swinging. Hard beside them saw I certain Closely-button’d dames on horseback On their ladies’ saddles sitting With their falcons on their fists. As in parody behind them On their knackers, lanky ponies, Rode a troop of gay bedizen’d Women, looking like comedians. Full of beauty were their features, But perchance a little bold; Madly were they shouting with their Cheeks so full and wanton-painted. How they joyously re-echoed, Notes of hunting-horns and laughter, Yelping dogs and neighing horses, Cracking whips and shouts and halloing. CAPUT XIX. But, resembling beauty’s trefoil, In the midst of the procession Figures three I noticed; ne’er I Can forget those lovely women. Easily the first one knew I By the crescent on her forehead; Like a statue pure, all-proudly Onward rode the mighty goddess.