'Twas hush'd: One flash, of sombre glare, With yellow tinged the forests brown; Up rose 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 hound, 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!"

THE PALMER.

"O OPEN the door, some pity to show,

Keen blows the northern wind;

The glen is white with the drifted snow, And the path is hard to find.

"No outlaw seeks your castle gate,

From chasing the king's deer,

Though even an outlaw's wretched state Might claim compassion here.

"A weary Palmer, worn and weak,

I wander for my sin;

O open, for Our Lady's sake,

A pilgrim's blessing win!

"I'll give you pardons from the Pope, And reliques from o'er the sea,

Or if for these you will not ope,

Yet open for charity.

"The hare is crouching in her form, The hart beside the hind;

An aged man, amid the storm,
No shelter can I find.

"You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar, Dark, deep, and strong is he;

And I must ford the Ettrick o'er,

Unless you pity me.

"The iron gate is bolted hard,

At which I knock in vain ;

The owner's heart is closer barr'd,

Who hears me thus complain.