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 Assyrian.

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 damned 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 ass 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 ass.

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.

Mediæval maids I saw Buttoned 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!