These perchance are mortal wights, Bound by sorcery in this Miserable state as birds Stuffed and most disconsolate.

Sad, pathetic is their stare, Yet it hath impatience too, And, methinks at times they cast Sidelong glances at the witch.

She, Uraka, ancient, grim, Crouches low beside her son, Mute Lascaro near the fire Where the twain are casting slugs.

Casting that same fateful ball Whereby Atta Troll was slain.

How the lurching firelight flares O'er the witch's features gaunt!

Ceaselessly, yet silently Move her thin and quivering lips.

Are those magic spells she murmurs That the b.a.l.l.s may travel true?

Now and then she nods and t.i.tters To her son. But he is deep In the business of the casts And sits silently as Death.

Overcome by fevered fears, Yearning for the cooler air, To the window then I strode And looked down the gulches dim.

All that in that midnight hour I beheld, all that will I Faithfully and featly tell In the canto that shall follow.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CANTO XVIII

'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 a.s.syrian.

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 d.a.m.ned 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 a.s.s 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 a.s.s.

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.

Mediaeval maids I saw b.u.t.toned 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!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CANTO XIX

But like Beauty's clover-leaf, In the very midst arose Three fair women. I shall never Their majestic forms forget!

Well I knew the first! Her head Glittered with the crescent moon.

Haughty, like some ivory statue Sat the G.o.ddess on her steed.