From the window of Uraca’s Witchlike hut I excellently Could observe the spirit-army As it sped along the valley.
Capital the place I stood in For observing what was passing; I enjoy’d a full sight of the Grave-arisen dead men’s pastime.
Cracking whips, and shouts and halloing, Yelping dogs and neighing horses, Notes of hunting-horns and laughter, How they joyously re-echoed!
On in front by way of vanguard Ran the wondrous game they hunted, Stag and sow, in herds enormous, With the pack of hounds behind them.
Huntsmen out of every region And of every age were gather’d; Hard by Nimrod of Assyria, For example, rode Charles X--.
High upon their snowy horses On they rush’d; on foot there follow’d The piqueurs, the leashes holding, And the pages with the torches.
Many in the wild procession Seem’d to me well-known. The horseman In the golden glist’ning armour,-- Was he not the great King Arthur?
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,