The door will then fly open wide."
The crafty wolf the bobbin drew,
And straight the door wide open flew.
He pac'd the bed room eight times four,
And utter'd thrice a hideous roar;
He pac'd the bed room nine times three,
And then devour'd poor grandmummie.
He dash'd her brains out on the stones,
He gnaw'd her sinews, crack'd her bones;
He munch'd her heart, he quaff'd her gore,
And up her lights and liver tore.[41]!!!!
Grandmummy's bed he straight got in,
Her night-cap tied beneath his chin;
And, waiting for his destin'd prey,
All snug between the sheets he lay.
Now at the door a voice heard he,
Which cried ... "I've brought you custards three;
Oh! let me in, grandmummy good,
For I am small red riding hood."
"The bobbin pull (the wolf king cried),
The door will then fly open wide."
The little dear the bobbin drew,
And straight the door wide open flew.[42]
She plac'd the custards on the floor,
And sigh'd ... "I wish I'd brought you _four_.[43]
I'm very tir'd, dear grandmummie;
Oh! may I come to bed to thee?"
"Oh come! (the wolf king softly cried),
And lie, my sweet one, by my side:"
Ah! little thought the child so gay
The cruel wolf king near her lay!
"Oh! tell me, tell me, granny dear,
Why does your _voice_ so gruff appear?"
"Oh! hush, sweetheart (the wolf king said),
I've got a small cold in my head!"
"Oh! tell me, grandmummie so kind,
Why you've a _tail_ grows out _behind_?"
"Oh! hush thee, hush thee, pretty dear,
My pincushion I hang on there!"
"Why do your _eyes_ so glare on me?"
"They are your pretty face to see."
"Why do your _ears_ so long appear?"
"They are your pretty voice to hear."
"Oh! tell me, granny, why to-night
Your teeth appear so long and white?"[44]
Then, growling, cried the wolf so grim,
"They are to tear you limb from limb!"
His hungry teeth the wolf king gnash'd,
His sparkling eyes with fury flash'd,
He op'd his jaws all sprent with blood,
And fell on small red riding hood.
He tore her bowels out one and two,
"Little maid, I will eat you!"
But when he tore out three and four,
The little maid she was no more!
Take warning hence, ye children fair;
Of wolves' insidious arts beware;
And, as you pass each lonely wood,
Ah! think of small red riding hood!
With custards sent, nor loiter slow,
Nor gather blue bells as you go;
Get not to bed with grandmummie,
Lest she a ravenous wolf should be!
_Port Folio_, II-173, June 5, 1802, Phila.
[Footnote 41: This stanza is borrowed from an affecting and
sanguinary description in a German ballad by Professor Von
Spluttbach, called Skulth den Balch, or Sour Mthltz; in
English, as far as a translation can convey an idea of the
horror of the original, "The Bloody Banquet, or the Gulph of
Ghosts!!!" a very terrible and meritorious production.]
[Footnote 42: Repetition is the soul of ballad writing.]
[Footnote 43: The reader will do my heroine the justice to
remember that she set out with only _three_, consequently her
wish that another had been added, arose from a motive purely
affectionate and characteristic. This benevolent trait,
ingeniously insinuated, excites the interest of the reader
for her, and adds horror to the catastrophe.]
[Footnote 44: Our heroine is here lost in _double_
astonishment; not only the _length_, but the _whiteness_ of
her grandmother's teeth excites her wonder and suspicion.]
The following piece of singular and original composition was found
amongst the papers of an old Dutchman, in Albany. The manuscript has
suffered considerably from the tooth of time, and from several marks
of antiquity about it, it may be safely inferred, that a century at
least has elapsed since it was written. It is hardly necessary to
inform the judicious reader, that this piece is no other than a billet
doux, or love epistle, sent by some Dutch swain in the country, to the
girl of his heart, who, it seems, had gone to reside some time in the
city of Albany.
HANS LETTER TO NOTCHIE.
Mine Cot, vat vose does Hans se feel,
Vile lufly Notchie is avay,
Vat is de matter, vat de deel,
Does make you zo vorever stay.
I sleep none in de day, nor nite,
Mit such impashuns I duz burn,
Zo, when de shell drake vings hur vlite,
Pore Frow she mornes vor his return.
Zo owls will hoot, und cats will mew,
Und dogs will howl; und storms will ney,
Und zhall not I more anguish sho,
Vile lufly Notchie is avay.
A shacket I has lately bot,
Und brokenbrooks zo zoft as zilk,
Stripd as your under petticote,
Und vite as any buttermilk.
Make hase, mine dere, und quikly cum,
Mine vaders goin to di, you zee,
Und Yacups cot his viddle home,
Und we shall haf a daring bee.
I feres zum Yanky vull uv art,
More cunnin, as de ferry dele,
Vill git away yorn little hart,
Zo as da will our horshes stele.
If any wun yore hart shool blunder,
Mine horshes Ill do vaggon yoke,
Und ghase him quickly by mine dunder,
I vly zo zwift as any zpoke.
Vhen yonk Vontoofen, my coot frend
Zhall cum to zee you vhare you be,
Dese skarlet carters I zhall zend,
O die dem on, und dink on me.
_Port Folio_, II-176, June 5, 1802, Phila.
["se feel" (stanza I). "se" is no Dutch word and the verb "feel"
(voelen) is not reflexive in Dutch. In stanzas III and VI "mill"
appears in the place of "will." This is most likely a misprint, since
"_w_ in Dutch is a particularly tenacious sound" and is not replaced
by _m_, as is sometimes the case in German. "Brokenbrooks" is a coined
word.
The author is indebted for the above information to Professor Wm. H.
Carpenter, of Columbia University, and to Arnold Katz, the Dutch
vice-consul at Philadelphia.]
HRIM THOR, OR THE WINTER KING.
A Lapland Ballad.
I shall not soon tire of copying ballads from the "Tales of Terror."
They are the legitimate offspring of genius. We are conducted by a
versatile guide, sometimes into the vale of tears, and sometimes into
the hall of mirth. But let him lead us where he will, we cheerfully
follow and always find ourselves with a sensible and tuneful
companion. I am half inclined to suspect that Mr. Lewis himself is the
concealed author. We know how he brilliantly travestied his own
ballad, Alonzo the Brave, and it is probable that in this collection
he is alter et idem.
[The poem follows.]
_Port Folio_, II-195, June 26, 1802, Phila.
[M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Terror_, 1799, Kelso. Cf. p. 18.]
GRIM, KING OF THE GHOSTS,
OR THE DANCE OF DEATH.
_Port Folio_, II-199, June 26, 1802, Phila.
[M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Terror_. Cf. p. 18.]
ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED ONLY SON.
Translated from a Danish Inscription.
By T. CAMPBELL, Esq.
_Port Folio_, II-352, Nov. 1802, Phila.
WRITTEN IN GERMANY, IN AUTUMN, 1801.
Hail, deadly Autumn, and thy fading leaf,
I love thee, drear and gloomy as thou art;
Not joyful Spring, like thee can soften grief,
Nor gaudy Summer soothe the aching heart;
But in thy cheerless, solitary bower,
Beneath the varied shade, I love to lie,
When dusky Evening's melancholy hour
With boding clouds obscures the low'ring sky,
And tuneless birds and fading flowers appear
In grief to hang their heads, and mourn the parting year.
'Tis not the gloomy sky, the parting year,
'Tis not the Winter's dreary reign I mourn,
But absent friends--and _one_ than life more dear,
And joys departed, never to return!
O gentle Hope, that 'mid Siberia's snows,
Can cheer the wretched exile's lingering year,
And where the sun on curs'd Oppression glows,
Can check the sigh, and wipe the falling tear,
Thy gentle care--thy succour I implore;
O raise thy heavenly voice, and bid me weep no more.
Thou hears't my prayer--I feel thy holy flame--
And future joys in bright succession rise,
And mutual love and friendship--sacred name!
And home and all the blessings that I prize.
Thou, Memory, lendst thy aid, and to my view
Each friend I love, and every scene most dear,
In forms more bright than ever painter drew,
Fresh from thy pencil's magic tint appear.
Roll on, ye lingering hours, that lie between,
Till Truth shall realize, and Virtue bless, the scene.
--R.
_N. E. Quarterly Mag._, No. III-271, Oct.-Dec. 1802, Boston.
ALBERT OF WERDENDORFF.
OR,
THE MIDNIGHT EMBRACE.
A German Romance.
Nocturnus occurram furor. Hor.
_Port Folio_, IV-334, Oct. 20, 1804, Phila.
[M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Terror_, 1799, Kelso.]
ON THE DEATH OF MR. HANDEL.
In the midst of the performance of his Lent Oratorio, (1759) of the
Messiah, nature exhausted, he dropt his head upon the keys of the
organ he was playing upon, and with difficulty raised up again. He
recovered his spirits, and went on with the performance until the
whole was finished. He was carried home, and died.
To melt the soul, to captivate the ear,
(Angels such melody might deign to hear,)
To anticipate on earth the joys of heav'n,
'Twas Handel's task: to him that pow'r was giv'n.
Ah, when he late attuned Messiah's praise,
With sound celestial, with melodious lays:
A last farewell, his languid looks express'd,
And thus, methinks, th' enraptur'd crowd addrest.
"Adieu, my dearest friend, and also you,
"Joint sons of sacred harmony, adieu!
"Apollo whispering, prompts me to retire,
"And bids me join the bright seraphic choir:
"Oh! for Elijah's car!" great Handel cry'd:
Messiah heard his voice, and Handel died.
_Boston Weekly Mag._, II-208, Oct. 20, 1804, Boston.
WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS
OF THE CENTURY, BY W. WORDSWORTH.
_Port Folio_, IV-342, Oct. 27, 1804, Phila.
[William Wordsworth, _idem_.
"The Reader must be apprised, that the stoves in North Germany
generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this
being part of the Brunswick arms."]
A HUMBLE IMITATION OF SOME STANZAS,
WRITTEN BY W. WORDSWORTH, IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF
THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY.
'A fig for your languages, German and Norse,
Let me have the song of the _kettle_
And the _tongs_ and the _poker_.'--W. W.
[The poem, which contains no references to Germany, follows.]
_Port Folio_, IV-342, Oct. 27, 1804, Phila.
AGAINST FAUSTUS.
In scorn of writers, Faustus still doth hold,
Nought is now said, but hath been said of old;
Well, Faustus, say my wits are gross and dull,
If for that word I give thee not a Gull:
Thus then I prove thou holdst a false position;
I say thou art a man of fair condition,
A man true of thy word, tall of thy hands,
Of high descent and left good store of lands;
Thou with false dice and cards hast never play'd,
Corrupted never widow, wife or maid,
And, as for swearing, none in all this realm,
Doth seldomer in speech curse or blaspheme.
In fine, your virtues are so rare and ample,
For all our Song thou mayst be made a sample.
This, I dare swear, _none ever said before_,
This, I may swear, _none ever will say more_.
_Port Folio_, IV-383, Dec. 1, 1804, Phila.
THE CELEBRATED SWISS AIR,
RANZ DES VACHES.
"This air, so dear to the Swiss," says Rousseau, "was forbidden by the
French government to be played among the Swiss soldiers, employed in
the service of France, under pain of death; because it excited such a
fond remembrance of the scenes they had witnessed in their own native
country, and such a strong desire of seeing them again, that it caused
them to shed tears, to desert, or, if they despaired of this, to
commit suicide."
Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objets de mon amour?
Nos claires ruisseaux,
Nos couteaux [_sic_],
Nos hameaux,
Nos montagnes,
Et l'ornament de nos campagnes,
La si gentille Isabeau?
A l'ombre d'un ormeau,
Quand danserai-je au son du chalumeau?
Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objects de mon amour?
Mon pere,
Ma mere,
Mon frere
Ma soeur,
Mes agneaux
Mes troupeaux,
Ma bergere?
Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objet de mon amour?
LITERAL TRANSLATION.
When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my
affection?--our clear streams, our cottages [_sic_], our hamlets, our
mountains, and the ornament of our fields, the gentle Isabelle?--Under
the shade of a spreading elm, when shall I dance again to the sound of
the tabor?
When shall I behold again, in one day, all pleasing objects of my
love?--my father, mother, brothers, sisters, my lambs, my flocks, and
my faithful shepherdess?--When shall I behold again, in one day, all
the pleasing objects of my affection?
Boston, Jan. 30, 1805.
_Boston Weekly Mag._, III-60, Feb. 2, 1805, Boston.
For the Port Folio.
THE SCANDINAVIAN HERO.
SKOGUL.
From midst the dusty fields of war
To realms beyond the northern star,
To loud Valhalla's echoing halls,
I bear the hero ere he falls;
The valiant dwell in those abodes,
And sit amid carousing gods;
Not goblets rich, nor flasks of gold,
But skulls of mantling mead they hold;
The coward while he gasps for breath,
Sinks darkling to Hela beneath.
HAROLD.
O be it mine, from conflict borne,
To reach the realms of endless morn;
At Odin's board my lips I'll lave
In the foam'd bev'rage of the brave.
ODIN.
Who breaks the dusty fields of war,
Death travels by his clattering car;
Perch'd on the whirlwind's thund'ring tower,
On comes the sable tempest's power;
Ye warriors rise, ye chiefs give room,
A godlike guest in youthful bloom,
Harold from fields of battle see,
Begin th' immortal revelry.
S.
_Port Folio_, V-120, Apr. 20, 1805, Phila.
WERTER'S EPITAPH.
_Phila. Repos._, V-164, May 25, 1805, Phila.
[Also in _Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.]
PRAYER OF FREDERICK II IN BEHALF OF POETS.
Ye Gods! from whom each favour'd bard
Receives those talents verse requires,
O teach them truth! for sure 'tis hard
They should be all such wicked liars.
_Boston Mag._, I-12, Nov. 9, 1805, Boston.
A SKETCH OF THE ALPS, AT DAYBREAK.
The sun-beams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow;
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roebuck through the snow.
From rock to rock, with giant-bound,
High on their iron poles they pass;
Mute, lest the air, convuls'd by sound,
Rend from above a frozen mass.
The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude;
Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud,
Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.
_Evening Fireside_, II-74, Feb. 8, 1806, Phila.
In the following exquisite Parody, the sentiments are not less
admirable than the talents of the author. We have often expressed our
contempt for German plays, and we are happy to fortify our opinion of
the Teutonic Muse, with the wit of a man of genius, and a polite
scholar.
ODE TO THE GERMAN DRAMA,
By Mr. SEWARD.
A Parody of Gray's Ode to Adversity.
Daughter of night, chaotic Queen!
Thou fruitful source of modern lays,
Whose turbid plot, and tedious scene,
The monarch spurn, the robber raise.
Bound in thy necromantic spell
The audience taste the joys of hell,
And Briton's sons indignant grown
With pangs unfelt before, at crimes before unknown.
When first, to make the nation stare,
Folly her painted mask display'd,
Schiller sublimely mad was there,
And Kotz'bue lent his leaden aid.
Gigantic pair! their lofty soul
Disdaining reason's weak control,
On changeful Britain sped the blow,
Who, thoughtless of her own, embraced fictitious woe.
Aw'd by thy scowl tremendous, fly
Fair Comedy's theatric brood,
Light satire, wit, and harmless joy,
And leave us dungeons, chains and blood.
Swift they disperse, and with them go,
Mild Otway, sentimental Rowe;
Congreve averts the indignant eye,
And Shakespeare mourns to view the exotic prodigy.
Ruffians, in regal mantle dight,
Maidens immers'd in thoughts profound,
Spectres, that haunt the shades of night,
And spread a waste of ruin round.
These form thy never-varying theme,
While, buried in thy Stygian stream,
Religion mourns her wasted fires
And Hymen's sacred torch low hisses, and expires.
O mildly on the British stage,
Great Anarch! spread thy sable wings;
Not fired with all the frantic rage,
With which thou hurl'st thy darts at kings.
As thou in native garb art seen,
With scattered tresses, haggard mien,
Sepulchral chains and hideous cry
By despot arts immur'd in ghastly poverty.
In specious form, dread Queen! appear;
Let falsehood fill the dreary waste;
Thy democratic rant be here,
To fire the brain, corrupt the taste.
The fair, by vicious love misled,
Teach me to cherish and to wed,
To low-born arrogance to bend,
Establish'd order spurn, and call each outcast friend.
_Port Folio_, I-92, Feb. 15, 1806, Phila.
THE SWEDISH COTTAGE.
From Carr's Northern Summer.
Here, far from all the pomp ambition seeks,
Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais'd,
Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks,
Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais'd.
On a gay rock it stands, whose fretted base
The distant cataract's murm'ring waters lave;
Whilst, o'er its grassy roof, with varying grace,
The slender branches of the white birch wave.
Behind, the forest fir is heard to sigh,
On which the pensive ear delights to dwell;
And, as the gazing stranger passes by,
The grazing goat looks up and rings his bell.
Oh! in my native land, ere life's decline,
May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine!
_Weekly Visitant_, I-63, Feb. 22, 1806, Salem.
[Sir John Carr, _A Northern Summer; or Travels round the Baltic in
1804_, London, 1805.]
ODE TO DEATH.
By Frederick II, King of Prussia. Translated from the French by Dr.
Hawkesworth.
_Polyanthos_, I-270, Mar. 1806, Boston.
[Also in _New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, I-339, Dec. 7, 1786, New
Haven.]
THE DANCING BEAR. A FABLE.
[Perhaps suggested by Gellert's fable of the same title, but differing
much in content. Cf. _Port Folio_, I-400, Dec. 12, 1801, Phila., where
a translation of Gellert's poem is given.]
_Emerald_, I-118, July 5, 1806, Boston.
The following song by M. G. Lewis Esq. is, as we are apprized by that
gentleman, derived from the _French_, though the swain who figures in
it appears to be a German. The thought is pretty and the measure
flowing.
A wolf, while Julia slept, had made
Her favorite lamb his prize;
Young Casper flew to give his aid,
Who heard the trembler's cries.
He drove the wolf from off the green,
But claim'd a kiss for pay.
Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been,
Had Casper staid away.
While grateful feelings warm'd her breast,
She own'd she loved the swain;
The youth eternal love professed,
And kiss'd and kiss'd again.
A fonder pair was never seen;
They lov'd the live long day:
Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been,
Had Casper staid away.
At length, the sun his beams withdrew,
And night inviting sleep,
Fond Julia rose and bade adieu,
Then homeward drove her sheep.
Alas! her thoughts were chang'd, I ween,
For thus I heard her say;
Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been,
Had Casper staid away.
_Port Folio_, II-94, Aug. 16, 1806, Phila.
EXTRACTS FROM "THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND"
by James Montgomery, London, 1806.
_Port Folio_, II-369, 412, Dec. 20, 31, 1806, Phila.
[James Montgomery, _The Wanderer of Switzerland and Other Poems_,
London, 1806. The first American edition from the second London
edition--N. Y., 1807.
Extracts from Parts VI and I respectively. Cf. Preface.]
RUNIC ODE.
THE HAUNTING OF HAVARDUR.
By C. Leftly, Esq.
Son of Angrym, warrior bold,
Stay thy travel o'er the wold;
Stop, Havardur, stop thy steed;
Thy death, thy bloody death's decreed.
She, Coronzon's lovely maid,
Whom thy wizard wiles betray'd,
Glides along the darken'd coast,
A frantic, pale, enshrouded ghost.
Where the fisher dries his net,
Rebel waves her body beat;
Seduc'd by thee, she toss'd her form
To the wild fury of the storm.
Know thou feeble child of dust,
Odin's brave, and Odin's just;
From the Golden Hall I come
To pronounce thy fatal doom;
Never shall thou pass the scull
Of rich metheglin deep and full:
Late I left the giant throng,
Yelling loud thy funeral song;
Imprecating deep and dread
Curses on thy guilty head.
Soon with Lok, thy tortur'd soul,
Must in boiling billows roll;
Till the God's eternal light
Bursts athwart thy gloom of night;
Till Surtur gallops from afar,
To burn this breathing world of war.
Bold to brave the spear of death,
Heroes hurry o'er the heath:
Hasten to the smoking feast--
Welcome every helmed guest,
Listen hymns of sweet renown,
Battles by thy fathers won;
Frame thy face in wreathed smiles,
Mirth the moodiest mind beguiles.--
Yet I hover always nigh,
Bid thee think,--and bid thee sigh;
Yet I goad thy rankling breast;--
Never, never, shalt thou rest.
What avails thy bossy shield?
What the guard thy gauntlets yield?
What the morion on thy brow?
Or the hauberk's rings below?
If to live in anguish fear,
Danger always threatening near:
Lift on high thy biting mace,
See him glaring in thy face;
Turn--yet meet him, madd'ning fly,
Curse thy coward soul, and die.
Not upon the field of fight
Hela seals thy lips in night;
A brother, of infernal brood,
Bathes him in thy heart's hot blood;
Twice two hundred vassals bend,
Hail him as their guardian friend;
Mock thee writhing with the wound,
Bid thee bite the dusty ground;
Leave thee suffering, scorn'd alone,
To die unpitied and unknown.
Be thy nacked carcase strew'd,
To give the famish'd eagles food;
Sea-mews screaming on the shore,
Dip their beaks, and drink thy gore.
Be thy fiend-fir'd spirit borne,
Wreck'd upon the fiery tide,
An age of agony abide.
But soft, the morning-bell beats one,
The glow-worm fades; and, see, the sun
Flashes his torch behind yon hill.
At night, when wearied nature's still,
And horror stalks along the plain,
Remember--we must meet again.
_Port Folio_, II-415, Dec. 31, 1806, Phila.
Buerger's beautiful ballad,
Earl Walter winds his bugle horn,
To horse! to horse! halloo! halloo!.
has given rise in England to a very humorous
PARODY.
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
Earl Walter kicks the waiter's rump,
Down stairs! down stairs! halloo, halloo!
They sally forth, they wheel, they jump,
And fast the scampering watch pursue.
The jolly bucks from tavern freed,
Dash fearless on through thick and thin,
While answering alleys, as they speed,
Loudly re-echo to their din.
Saint Dunstan's arm, with massy stroke
The solemn midnight peal had rung,
And bawling out, "Past twelve o'clock,"
Loud, long and deep the watchman sung.
The clamorous Earl Walter guides,
Huzza, Huzza, my merry men,
When, puffing, holding both their sides,
Two strangers haste to join his train.
The right-hand stranger's locks were grey,
But who he was I cannot tell;
The left was debonnair and gay,
A dashing blood I know full well.
He wav'd his beaver hat on high,
Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord!
What joys can earth, or sea, or sky,
To match our midnight sports afford?"
"Methinks," the other said, "'twere best
To leave, my friends, your frantick joys,
And for the balmy sweets of rest,
Exchange such rude discordant noise."
But still Earl Walter onward hies,
And dashing forward, on they go,
Huzza, huzza, each toper cries,
"Hark forward, forward, hollo ho!"
The jovial band Earl Walter guides,
Along the Fleet, up Ludgate-Hill,
And puffing, holding both their sides,
His boon companions follow still.
From yonder winding lane out springs
A phantom, white as snow,
And louder still Earl Walter sings,
"Hark forward, forward, hollo, ho!"
A quaker prim has crossed the way,
He sprawls their nimble feet below,
But what care they for _yea_-and-_nay_,
Still forward, forward, on they go.
See, at the corner of yon street,
A humble stall, with apples crown'd!
See, scatter'd by Earl Walter's feet,
The woman's apples rolling round.
"O Lord! have mercy on my stall,
Spare the hard earnings of the poor,
The helpless widow's little all,
The fruit of many a watchful hour."
Earnest the right hand stranger pleads,
The left still pointing to the prey,
The impatient Earl no warning heeds,
But furious holds the onward way.
"Away, thou poor old wither'd witch,
Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!"
Then loud he sung and wav'd his switch,
"Hark forward, forward, hollo ho!"
So said, so done; one single bound
Clears the _green grocer's_ humble stall;
While through the apples scatter'd round,
They hurry, hurry, one and all.
And now behold the tim'rous prey,
Beyond the reach of Comus' crew,
Still lightly trip along the way,
Unconscious who her steps pursue.
Again they wheel, their nimble feet
The devious way still quickly trace,
Down Ludgate-Hill, along the Fleet,
The unwearied Earl pursues the chase.