 | Hunting Songs |  |
The Spectre Stag.
A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.
I
A baron lived in Germany,Of old and noble race,
Whose mind was wholly bent upon
The pleasures of the chase.
II
Thro' summer's sultry dog-days,Thro' winter's frost severe,
This Baron's hunting season
Was twelve months in the year.
III
From dawn till dark he hunted,And the truth I grieve to speak,
The number of his hunting days
Was seven in the week.
IV
No lands within his seignorieWas serf allowed to till;
26
No vineyard on the hill.
V
What marvel hungry poachers,When the Baron was a-bed,
Were bent on stealing venison,
For very lack of bread?
VI
But woe that wretch betided,Who in the quest was found;
On the stag he would have slaughter'd
Was his naked body bound.
VII
Borne, like Mazeppa, headlong,From the panting quarry's back
He saw the thirsty blood-hounds
Let loose upon his track.
VIII
The pack, their prey o'ertaken,On the mangled victims feast;
And, mix'd in one red slaughter,
Flows the blood of man and beast.
IX
The Baron thus his pastimePursued until he died;
My tale shall tell how this befell
On the eve of Eastertide.
27
X
The moon rose o'er the forest,And the distant village chime
Call'd sinners to confession,
And bespoke a hallow'd time.
XI
When suddenly a strange hallooWas heard around to ring,
The Hunter seiz'd his bow and plac'd
An arrow on the string.
XII
The cry, the cheer, the tumultOf the chase—and then, display'd
By the pale light of the moonbeam,
Far adown the forest-glade,
XIII
Was seen, with brow full antler'd,A Monster Stag—his back
Bestridden by a Huntsman,
Apparell'd all in black.
XIV
Their eyes unto their masterThe crouching pack uprais'd,
Their master on his trembling steed
At the sight was sore amaz'd.
28
XV
“Ye curs,” he cried, “why stir ye not?A curse upon the breed!
And you, ye loitering varlets,
Where are ye in such need?”
XVI
To summon then his followers,He grasp'd his hunting horn,
Through the forest's deep recesses
The echoing blast was borne.
XVII
But borne in vain—his retinueNo note in answer gave;
And the silence that succeeded
Was the silence of the grave.
XVIII
His eye in terror glancingFrom glade to distant crag,
Nought saw he save the spectre
Goading on that grisly stag.
XIX
The nearer it approach'd him,The larger still it grew;
Again he seiz'd his hunting horn,
And his gasping breath he drew.
29
XX
Eye, cheek, and throat distended,Each fibre strain'd to blow,
His life-breath past in that bugle blast,
And he fell from the saddle bow.
XXI
Where the Baron's chase was ended,There they laid his bones to rot;
And his heirs, in after ages,
Built a Chapel on the spot.
XXII
And still, they say, that bugle blast,When Easter-tide comes round,
Disturbs the midnight forest
With a strange unearthly sound.
| Hunting Songs | |