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Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,

In Freedom's temple born,
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,
To hail a master in our isle,

Or brook a victor's scorn ?
No! though destruction o'er the land

Come pouring as a flood,
The sun, that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,

And set that night in blood.
For gold let Gallia's legions fight,

Or plunder's bloody gain;
Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw,
To guard our King, to fence our Law,

Nor shall their edge be vain.
If ever breath of British gale

Shall fan the tricolor,
Or footstep of invader rude,
With rapine foul, and red with blood,

Pollute our happy shore,-
Then farewell home! and farewell friends!

Adieu each tender tie!
Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
Where charging squadrons furious ride,

To conquer, or to die.
To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam;

High sounds our bugle call;
Combined by honour's sacred tie;
Our word is Laws and Liberty !

March forward, one and all!

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Translations and Imitations of German Ballads.


[This and the following ballad were first published anonymously in a small book, entitled, “The Chase and William and Helen;" two ballads, from the German of Gottfried Augustus Bürger. Edinburgh: Printed by Mundell and Son, Bank-close, for Manners and Miller, Parliament-square; and sold by T. Carlell, jun., and W. Davies, in the Strand, London. 1796. 4to. It goes generally by the title, “The Wild Huntsman.”]

This is a translation, or rather an imitation, of the “ Wilde Jäger” of the German poet Bürger. The tradition upon which is founded bears, that formerly a Wildgrave, or keeper of a royal forest, named Falkenburg, was so much addicted to the pleasures of the chase, and otherwise so extremely profligate and cruel, that he not only followed this unhallowed amusement on the Sabbath, and other days consecrated to religious duty, but accompanied it with the most unheard-of oppression upon the poor peasants who were under his vassalage. When this second Nimrod died, the people adopted a superstition, founded probably on the many various uncouth sounds heard in the depth of a German forest, during the silence of the night. They conceived they still heard the cry of the Wildgrave's hounds; and the wellknown cheer of the deceased hunter, the sounds of his horse's feet, and the rustling of the branches before the game, the pack, and the sportsmen, are also distinctly discriminated; but the phantoms are rarely, if ever, visible. Once, as a benighted Chasseur heard this infernal chase pass by him, at the sound of the halloo, with which the Spectre Huntsman cheered his hounds, he could not refrain from crying, “ Glück zu Falkenburg !" (Good sport to ye, Falkenburg!) “Dost thou wish me good sport?" answered a hoarse voice; "thou shalt share the game;" and there was thrown at him what seemed to be a huge piece of foul carrion. The daring Chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, and never perfectly recovered the personal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, though told with some variations, is universally believed all over Germany.

The French had a similar tradition concerning an aërial hunter, who infested the forest of Fountainebleau.

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TAE Wildgravea winds his bugle horn,

To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo !
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,
And thronging serfs their lords pursue.

The eager pack, from couples freed,

Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake;
While, answering hound, and horn, and steed,
The mountain echoes startling wake.

The beams of God's own hallowed day

Had painted yonder spire with gold,
And, calling sinful man to pray,
Loud, long, and deep, the bell had tolled :

But still the Wildgrave onward rides ;

Halloo, halloo ! and, hark again !
When, spurring from opposing sides,
Two Stranger Horsemen join the train.

Who was each Stranger, left and right,

Well may I guess, but dare not tell,
The right-hand steed was silver wbite,
The left, the swarthy hue of hell.

The right-hand horseman, young and fair,

His smile was like the morn of May;
The left, from eye of tawny glare,
Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray.

He waved his huntsman's cap on high,

Cried, “Welcome, welcome, noble lord !
What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,
To match the princely chase afford ?”-

Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell,”
Cried the fair youth with silver voice;
And for Devotion's choral swell,
Exchange the rude un hallowed noise.

“ To-day, the ill-omened chase forbear,

Yon bell yet summons to the fane;
To-day the Warning Spirit hear,

To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain."-
* In the First Edition “ Earl Walter” is the term applied throughout
the ballad, instead of "the Wildgrave."

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“ Away, and sweep the glades along!"

The Sable Hunter hoarse replies;
"To muttering monks leave matin-song,
And bells, and books, and mysteries.”—

The Wildgrave spurred bis ardent steed,

And, launching forward with a bound,
Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede,
Would leave the jovial horn and hound ?

“Hence, if our manly sport offend !

With pious fools go chant and pray:
Well hast thou spoke, my dark-browed friend;
Halloo, halloo ! and, hark away !"

The Wildgrave spurred his courser light,

O’er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill;
And on the left, and on the right,
Each Stranger Horseman followed still.

Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn,

A stag more white than mountain snow;
And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn,
“Hark, forward, forward! holla, ho!”

A heedless wretch has crossed the way;

He gasps the thundering hoofs below;-
But, live who can, or die who may,
Still, “Forward, forward !” On they go.

See, where yon simple fences meet,

A field with autumn's blessings crowned;
See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet,
A husbandman, with toil embrowned:

“O mercy, mercy, noble lord !

Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry,
6 In the First Edition this, and the following verse, read thus:-

No! pions fool, I scorn thy lore;

Let him who ne'er the chase durst prove
Go join with thee the droning choir,

And leave me to the sport I love.
“ Fast, fast, Earl Walter onward rides,

O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill,
And onward fast, on either side,

The stranger horsemen followed still." e First edition:

Spare the hard pittance of the poor."

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“Earned by the sweat these brows have poured, In scorching hour of fierce July.”

Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads,

The left still cheering to the prey;
The impetuous Earl no warning heeds,

But furious holds the onward way.



Away, thou hound! so basely born,

Or dread the scourge's echoing blow !”
Then loudly rung his bugle-horn,
“Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!”

So said, so done :- A single bound

Clears the poor labourer's humble pale;
Wild follows man, and horse, and hound,

Like dark December's stormy gale.


And man, and horse, and hound, and horn,

Destructive sweep the field along;
While, joying o'er the wasted corn,
Fell Famine marks the maddening throng.

Again up-roused the timorous prey

Scours moss, and moor, and holt, and hill;
Hard run, he feels his strength decay,
And trusts for life his simple skill.

Too dangerous solitude appeared ;

He seeks the shelter of the crowd ;
Amid the flock's domestic herd
His harmless head he hopes to shroud.

O'er moss, and moor, and holt, and hill,

His track the steady blood-hounds trace;
O'er moss and moor, unwearied still,
The furious Earl pursues the chase.e

Full lowly did the herdsman fall;

“O spare, thou noble Baron, spare

d First edition:

In scorching July's sultry hour." . First edition:

“ O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill,

The unwearied Earl pursues the chase." First edition :“ The anxious herdsman lowly falls."

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