Hero Tales and Legends of the Rhine Part 5

One of the most interesting Rhine myths is that concerning the Wild Huntsman, which is known all over Rhineland, and which is connected with many of its localities. The tale goes that on windy nights the Wild Huntsman, with his yelling pack of hounds, sweeps through the air, his prey departing souls. The huntsman is, of course, Odin, who in some of his aspects was a hunter-G.o.d. The English legend of Herne the Hunter, who haunts Windsor Park, is allied to this, and there can be little doubt that Herne is Odin. Indeed, it is here suggested that the name Herne may in some way be connected with one of Odin?s t.i.tles, Hari, the High One. It was the legend of the Wild Huntsman that inspired Sir Walter Scott to write one of his finest ballads of the mysterious. An Edinburgh friend had perused a ballad by Burger, ent.i.tled Lenore, but all he could remember of it were the following four lines: Tramp, tramp, across the land they ride; Splash, splash, across the sea. Hurrah! the dead can ride apace, Dost fear to ride with me?

This verse fired Scott?s imagination. He liked this sort of thing, and could do it very well himself. So on reaching home he sat down to the composition of the following ballad, of which we give the most outstanding verses:

THE WILD HUNTSMAN

The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn: To horse, to horse, haloo, haloo!

His fiery courser sniffs the morn, And thronging serfs their lord 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 G.o.d?s own hallowed day Had painted yonder spire with gold, And, calling sinful men to pray, Loud, long, and deep the bell hath tolled.

But still the Wildgrave onward rides; Haloo, haloo, and hark again!

When, spurring from opposing sides, Two stranger hors.e.m.e.n join the train.

Who was each stranger, left and right?

Well may I guess, but dare not tell.

The right-hand steed was silver-white; The left, the swarthy hue of h.e.l.l.

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, n.o.ble 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, unhallowed noise.

?To-day th? ill-omened chase forbear; Yon bell yet summons to the fane: To-day the warning spirit hear, To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.?

The Wildgrave spurred his 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-brown friend, Haloo, haloo, 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 grasps 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.

?Oh, mercy! mercy! n.o.ble lord; Spare the poor?s pittance,? was his cry; ?Earned by the sweat these brows have poured In scorching hours of fierce July.?

?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 madd?ning throng.

Full lowly did the herdsman fall: ?Oh, spare, thou n.o.ble baron, spare; These herds, a widow?s little all; These flocks, an orphan?s fleecy care.?

?Unmannered dog! To stop my sport Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, Though human spirits of thy sort Were tenants of these carrion kine!?

Again he winds his bugle horn, ?Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!?

And through the herd in ruthless scorn He cheers his furious hounds to go.

In heaps the throttled victims fall; Down sinks their mangled herdsman near; The murd?rous cries the stag appal, Again he starts, new-nerved by fear.

With blood besmeared, and white with foam, While big the tears of anguish pour, He seeks, amid the forest?s gloom, The humble hermit?s hallowed bow?r.

All mild, amid the route profane, The holy hermit poured his prayer: ?Forbear with blood G.o.d?s house to stain: Revere His altar, and forbear!

?The meanest brute has rights to plead, Which, wronged by cruelty or pride, Draw vengeance on the ruthless head; Be warned at length, and turn aside.?

Still the fair horseman anxious pleads; The black, wild whooping, points the prey.

Alas! the Earl no warning heeds, But frantic keeps the forward way.

?Holy or not, or right or wrong, Thy altar and its rights I spurn; Not sainted martyrs? sacred song, Not G.o.d Himself shall make me turn.?

He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, ?Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!?

But off, on whirlwind?s pinions borne, The stag, the hut, the hermit, go.

And horse and man, and horn and hound, The clamour of the chase was gone; For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound, A deadly silence reigned alone.

Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around; He strove in vain to wake his horn, In vain to call; for not a sound Could from his anxious lips be borne.

High o?er the sinner?s humbled head At length the solemn silence broke; And from a cloud of swarthy red The awful voice of thunder spoke:

?Oppressor of creation fair!

Apostate spirits? hardened tool!

Scorner of G.o.d! Scourge of the poor!

The measure of thy cup is full.

?Be chased for ever through the wood, For ever roam the affrighted wild; And let thy fate instruct the proud, G.o.d?s meanest creature is His child.?

?Twas hushed: one flash of sombre glare With yellow tinged the forest?s brown; Up rose the Wildgrave?s bristling hair, And horror chilled each nerve and bone.

Earth heard the call?her entrails rend; From yawning rifts, with many a yell, Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascend The misbegotten dogs of h.e.l.l.

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 h.e.l.l.

The Wildgrave flies o?er bush and thorn, With many a shriek of hapless 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 b.l.o.o.d.y fangs, and eager cry, In frantic fear he scours along.