Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around;
He strove in vain to wake his horn,
In vain to call; for not a sound
Could from his anxious lips be borne.
He listens for his trusty hounds;
No distant baying reached his ears:
His courser, rooted to the ground,
The quickening spur unmindful bears.
Still dark and darker frown the shades,
Dark as the darkness of the grave;
And not a sound the still invades,
Save what a distant torrent gave.
High o'er the sinner's humbled head
At length the solemn silence broke ;
And, from a cloud of swarthy red,
The awful voice of thunder spoke.
"Oppressor of creation fair!
Apostate Spirits' harden'd tool!
Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor!
The measure of thy cup is full.”
"Be chased for ever through the wood;
For ever roam the affrighted wild ;
And let thy fate instruct the proud,
God's meanest creature is His child."
'Twas hushed :-One flash of sombre glare,
With yellow tinged the forests brown;
Uprose the Wildgrave's bristling hair,
And horror chill'd each nerve and bone.
Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill;
A rising wind began to sing;
And louder, louder, louder still,
Brought storm and tempest on its wing.
Earth heard the call;-her entrails rend;
From yawning rifts, with many a yell,
Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend
The misbegotten dogs of hell.
What ghastly Huntsman next arose,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell;
His eye like midnight lightning glows,
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.
The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn,
With many a shriek of helpless woe;
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn,
And, "Hark away, and holla, ho!"
With wild despair's reverted eye,
Close, close behind he marks the throng, With bloody fangs and eager cry; In frantic fear he scours along.—
Still, still shall last the dreadful chase,
Till time itself shall have an end;
By day they scour earth's cavern'd space,
At midnight's witching hour, ascend.
This is the horn, and nound, and horse,
That oft the 'lated peasant hears;
Appall'd, he signs the frequent cross,
When the wild din invades his ears.
The wakeful priest oft drops a tear
For human pride, for human woe,
When at his midnight mass he hears
The infernal cry of, "Holla, ho!"
FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.
(The Erl-King is a goblin that haunts the Black Forest of Thuringia.)
O, WHO rides by night thro' the woodland so wild?
It is the fond father embracing his child;
And close the boy nestles within his loved arm,
To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm.
"O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says;
My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze?
"O, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud." 'No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud."
"O come and go with me, thou loveliest child;
By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled;
My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy,
And many a fine flower shalt she pluck for my boy."
"O father, my father, and did you not hear
The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?"-
"Be still, my heart's darling-my child, be at ease;
It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees."
"O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy?
My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy ;
She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and thro' wild,
And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child."
"O father, my father, and saw you not plain,
The Erl-King's pale daughter glide past thro' the
rain?"-
"O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon ;
It was the grey willow that danced to the moon."
"O come and go with me, no longer delay,
Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away.'
"O father! O father! now, now, keep your hold,
The Erl-King has seized me—his grasp is so cold!”—
Sore trembled the father; he spurr'd thro' the wild,
Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child;
He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread,
But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was dead!
[These lines were written in 1797, on the occasion of the poet's disappointment in love.]
THE violet in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, in copse, or forest dingle.
Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining;
I've seen an eye of lovelier hue,
More sweet through watr'y lustre shining.
The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
No longer in my false love's eye
Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow.
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