Loud, loud the baron winds his horn; And, see, a lordly train On horse, on foot, with deafening din, Comes scouring o'er the plain. O'er heath, o'er field, the yelping pack Dash swift, from couples freed; O'er heath, o'er field, close on their track, Loud neighs the fiery steed. And now the Sabbath's holy dawn Beam'd high with purple ray, And bright each hallowed temple's dome Reflected back the day. Now deep and clear the pealing bells Struck on the list'ning ear, And heaven-ward rose from many a voice The hymn of praise and prayer. Swift, swift along the crossway, still They speed with eager cry: See! right and left, two horsemen strange Their rapid coursers ply. Who were the horsemen right and left? That may I guess full well: Who were the horsemen right and left? That may I never tell. The right, of fair and beauteous mien, A milk-white steed bestrode; Mild as the vernal skies, his face With heavenly radiance glow'd. The left spurr'd fast his fiery barb, Red as the furnace flame; Sullen he loured, and from his eyes The death-like lightning came. 'Right welcome to our noble sport;' The baron greets them fair; 'For well I wot ye hold it good To banish moping care. 'No pleasure equal to the chase, Or earth, or heaven can yield;' He spoke,--he waved his cap in air, And foremost rushed afield. 'Turn thee!' the milder horseman cries; 'Turn thee from horns and hounds! Hear'st not the bells, hear'st not the quire, Mingle their sacred sounds? 'They drown the clamor of the chase; Oh! hunt not then to-day, Nor let a fiend's advice destroy Thy better angel's sway.' 'Hunt on, hunt on,' his comrade cries, 'Nor heed yon dotard's spell; What is the bawling quire to us? Or what the jangling bell? 'Well may the chase delight thee more; And well may'st learn from me, How brave, how princely is our sport, From bigot terrors free.' 'Well said! well said! in thee I own A hero's kindled fire; These pious fool'ries move not us, We reck nor priest, nor quire. 'And thou, believe me, saintlike dolt, Thy bigot rage is vain; From prayers and beadrolls, what delight Can sportsmen hope to gain?' Still hurry, hurry, on they speed O'er valley, hill and plain; And ever at the baron's side Attend the horsemen twain. See, panting, see, a milk-white hart Up-springs from yonder thorn: 'Now swiftly ply both horse and foot; Now louder wind the horn!' See, falls a huntsman! see, his limbs The pangs of death distort! 'Lay there and rot: no caitiff's death Shall mar our princely sport.'