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But this calm Eden of domestic hours
Is brief, as blest. Again, his forward course
Through the green twilight of Thuringa's woods
Behold the man of God in peace renew,
Under the balmy flush of May inspired;
Till lo! at length old Glisbach's hoary fane
Glooms on the air; and, girt with feudal walls,
Altenstein glimmers from its castled height
Serene, but stern. But see! in golden calm
The Day is gliding down the gorgeous west,
Where the red Sun his farewell-pomp arrays;
While round about him, as for royal sheen,
Banners of crimson lustre wave, and wind,
Till the far clouds, with sympathetic hues
As in the blush of radiant sleep they lie,
Mirror bright meanings, from his burning face
Reflected. Soon the forest-boughs begin,
In the tranced quiet of a sunset-hour
To hush their waving; then, the languid breeze
Drops its gay motion; and the insect-hum
Low in the grass delights a pensive ear;
While the glad wings of home-returning birds
Flap on the air, with audible advance,
Which bids you track them to their pine-built nest
With eye pursuant. But, amid this peace
Of nature, deep as if with conscious depth,
Hark! tramp on tramp! with ringing hoofs that rend
The air before them, while the riven trees
Tremble, as if a sudden whirlwind tore
Their tangled umbrage, horse and horsemen arm'd
Plunge into view, in panoply complete,
And mask'd: then, swift and silent, ere a thought
Can think protection, Luther, from his steed
Dismounted, by some mailèd horseman grasp'd
And cloak'd, and on a charger rudely thrown,
At once is captured, as by Magic chain'd!
And in a second, hark, the sounding hoofs
Ring the deep forest with their hollow clang;
Then onward through its beechen wilds and woods
Plunge the mask'd riders, with a trackless speed;
And, Luther! where is now thy destined home?
Who can forecast what God, or man, intends?
Or, tell what dungeon, stake, or crushing wrong
Awaits thee, when a day of brightest hope
Ends in the shadow of so strange eclipse!

But Night hath deepen'd; and her shrouding veil
Garments the woods, which now with blacker gloom
The mountain-heights of lone Thuringa fringe;
And yet the Horsemen, with a voiceless flight
Hurry their captive through untrodden paths
Till the Moon rises, and her silv'ring gleam
Pale on the fortress of the Wartburg sleeps,
Which yonder dim and melancholy stands,
Calm as the clear cold heavens which o'er it spread
Their arch of silence. There the Horsemen pause,
Wearied and worn; and, list! the bugle sounds
A waking challenge in the warder's ear;
Drawn are the bolts, and down the drawbridge falls;
On iron hinges, ponderous and slow,
Opens a gateway to the midnight-Troop;
And mask'd and mail'd, around thee in yon court,
High-wall'd and barricaded, there they stand,
For, Luther, lo! thy Patmos greets thee now.