'Twas the night before Saint John's,
In the fullness of the moon,
When that wild and spectral hunt
Fills the Hollow Way of Ghosts.
From the window of Uraka's
Little cabin I could see
All that mighty host of wraiths
As it drifted through the gorge.
Yea, a goodly place was mine
Wherefrom I might well behold
The tremendous spectacle
Of the raised, carousing dead.
Cracking whips, hallo! hurrah!
Neigh of horses, bark of dogs,
Laughter, blare of huntsmen's horns--
How the tumult echoed there!
Dashing in advance there came
Stags and boars adventurous
In a solid pack; behind
Charged a wild and merry rout.
Huntsmen come from many zones
And from many ages too.
Charles the Tenth rode close beside
Nimrod the Assyrian.
High upon their snowy steeds
They charged onward. Then on foot
Came the whips with hounds in leash
And the pages with the links.
Many in that maddened horde
Seemed familiar--yon knight
Gleaming all in golden mail,--
Surely was King Arthur's self!
And Lord Ogier the Dane
In chain-armour shining green,
Truly close resemblance bore
To some mighty frog forsooth!
Many a hero I beheld
Of the gleaming world of thought;
Wolfgang Goethe straight I knew
By the sparkling of his eyes.
Being damned by Hengstenberg,
In his grave no peace he finds,
So with pagan blazonry
Gallops down the chase of Life.
By the glamour of his smile
Did I know the mighty Will
Whom the Puritans once cursed
Like our Goethe,--yet must he,
Luckless sinner, in this host
Ride a charger black as coal.
Close beside him on an ass
Rode a mortal and--great heavens!
By the weary mien of prayer
And the snowy night-cap too,
And the terror of his soul,
Francis Horn I recognized.
Commentaries he composed
On that great and cosmic child,
Shakespeare--therefore at his side
He must ride through thick and thin.
Lo, poor silent Francis rides,
He who scarcely dared to walk,
He who only stirred himself
At tea-tables and at prayers.
Surely all the oldish maids
Who indulged him in his ease,
Will be startled when they hear
Of his riding rough and free.
When the gallop faster grows,
Then great William glances down
On his commentator meek
Jogging onward on his ass.
To the saddle clinging tight,
Fainting in his terror sheer,
Yet unto his author loyal
In his death as in his life.
Many ladies there I saw,
In that crazy train of ghosts,
Many lovely nymphs with forms
Slender with the grace of youth.
On their steeds they sat astride
Mythologically nude!
Though their tresses thick and long
Fell like cloaks of stranded gold.
Garlands rustled on their heads
And they swung their laurelled staves,
Bending back in reckless ways,
Full of joyous insolence.
Mediæval maids I saw
Buttoned high unto the chin,
On their saddles seated slant,
Poising falcons on their wrists.
Like a burlesque, from behind
On their hacks and skinny nags
Came a rout of merry wenches,
Most extravagantly garbed.
And each face, though lovely quite,
Bore a trace of impudence;
Madly would they shriek and yell,
Puffing up their painted cheeks.
How this tumult echoed there!
Laughter, blare of huntsmen's horns;
Neigh of horses, bark of dogs,
Crack of whips! hallo! hurrah!
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[Illustration]