 The Chase, also known as the Wild Huntsman. This is part one of The Translations and Imitations of German Balance by Sir Walter Scott. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. More information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com. Translations and Imitations of German Balance by Sir Walter Scott. Part one, The Chase, also known as the Wild Huntsman. The Wild Grave winds his bugle horn to horse to horse. Halu, Halu, his fiery coarser snuffs the morn and fronging serves their lords. The eager pack from couples freed dash through the bush, the briar, the break, 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 Wild Grave onward rides. Halu, Halu, 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-white. The left the swore the 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? See, stile-out bugles clanging knell, cried the fair youth with silver voice, and for devotion's coral swell exchanged the rude, unhallowed noise. Today the ill-omend chase forbear, yon bell yet summons to the fame. Today the warning spirit here, tomorrow our maced morn in vain. Away and sweep the glades along, the sable hunter-horse replies, to muttering monks leave matinsong, and bills and books and mysteries. The wild-grave spurred his ardent steed, and launching forward with a bound, who for thy drowsy priest-like reed would leave the jovial horn and hound. Hence, if our manly sport offend, if pious fools go chant and pray, well hast thou spoke my dark-browed friend, halloe, halloe, and hark away. The wild-grave spurred his coarser-light over moths and moor, over halt 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 wild-grave's horn, hark forward, forward, holler, ho! A heedless wretch has crossed the way, he gasps the thundering hooves 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 wild-grave's feet a husbandman with toil in browned. O mercy, mercy, noble lord, spare the poor's pittance was his cry, burned by the sweat these brows have poured in scorching hour the fierce July, earnest the right-hand a stranger pleads, the left still cheering to the prey, the impetuous earl no warning heats, but furious holds the onward way. How hound, so basely borne, or dread the scourges echoing blow, then loudly rung his bugle horn, hark forward, forward, holler, ho! So said, so done, a single bound clears the poor laborer'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 drawing over the wasted corn, fell famine marks the maddening throng. Again up roused the timorous prey, scowls moss and moor and halt 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 flocks domestic herd, his harmless head he hopes to shroud, over moss and moor and halt and hill, his track the steady bloodhounds trace, over moss and moor unwirried still, the furious earl pursues the chase. Full lowly did the herdsmen fall, O spare thou noble barren spare, these herds are widows little all, these flocks an orphan's fleecy care. Ernest the right hand, stranger pleads, the left still cheering to the prey, the earl nor prayer nor pity heeds, but furious keeps the onward way. Unmannered dog to stop my sport, vain were thy cant and begger whine, though human spirits of thy sort, were tenants of these carrion kind. Again he whines his buccal 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 herdsmen near, the murderous cries, the stag appall, 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 bower. But man and horse and horn and hound, fast rattling on his tracers go, the sacred chapel rung around with Hark away and holla ho! O mild amid the rout profane, the holy hermit poured his prayer, forbear with blood God'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 know warning heeds, but frantic keeps the forward way. Holy or not or right or wrong, thy altar and its rights I spurn, not sainted martyr's sacred song, not God himself shall make me turn. He spurs his horse, he whines his horn, Hark forward, forward, holla ho! But off on whirlwinds, pinions born, the stag, the hut, the hermit go. And horse and man and horn and hound and 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 born. He listens for his trusty hounds, no distant bang reached his ears, his coarser rooted to the ground, a quickening spur and mindful bears. Still dark and darker frown the shades, dark as the darkness of the grave, and not a sound the still invades, save what a distant torrent gave. High over 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, of God, scourge of the poor, the measure of thy cup is full, be chased forever through the wood, forever roam the affrighted wild, and let thy fate instruct the proud God's meanest creature is his child. Twas hushed, unflash of somber glare, with yellow tinged the forests brown, up rose the wildgraves, bristling hair, and horror chilled each nerve and bone. Cold poured 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 for call, her entrails rend, from yawning rifts with many a yell, mixed with sulfurous 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 blows, his steed the swarthy hue of hell. The wildgrave flies over bush and thorn, with many a shriek of helpless woe, behind him hound and horse and horn, and hark away and holler ho! With wild despairs 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 caverned space, at midnight's witching hour ascend. This is the horn, the hound and horse, that oft the latered peasant hears, appalled he signs the frequent cross, when the wild dim invades his ears. The wakeful priest oft drops a tear, cried, or human woe, when at his midnight mass he hears, the infernal cry of holler ho! End of Part 1. Recorded by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com. William and Helen. This is Part 2 of the translations and imitations of German balance by Sir Walter Scott. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com. Translations and imitations of German balance by Sir Walter Scott. Part 2, William and Helen. From heavy dreams, fair Helen rose and eyed the dawning red. Alas, my love, thou tarriest long, O art thou false or dead. With gallant Frederick's princely power he sought the bold crusade, but not a word from Judah's wars told Helen how he sped. With panium and with saracan at length a truce was made, and every night returned to dry the tears his love had shed. Our gallant host was homeward bound by many a song of joy. Green waved the laurel in each plume, the badge of victory, and old and young and sire, and some to meet them crowd away with shouts and mirth and melody, the debt of love to pay. For many a maid her true love met and sobbed in his embrace and fluttering joy in tears and smiles arrayed for many a face. No smile for Helen said she sought the host in vain, for none could tell her Williams fate if faithless or if slain. The marshal band is past and gone she rends her raven hair and in distractions bitter mood she weeps with wild despair. O rise my child, her mother said, nor sorrow thus in vain, a perjured lover's fleeting heart, no tears recall a game. O mother, what is gone is gone, what's lost forever long? Death, death alone can comfort me. O had I never been born, O break my heart, O break at once, drink my lifeblood despair. No joy remains on earth for me, for me in heaven no share. O enter not in judgment, Lord, the pious mother prays, impute not guilt to thy frail child. She knows not what she says. O say thy paternoster child, O turn to God and grace, his will that turned thy bliss to bale can change thy bale to bliss. O mother, mother, what is bliss? O mother, what is bale? My Williams love was heaven on earth, without it earth is hell. Why should I pray to ruthless heaven since my loved Williams slain? I only prayed for Williams' sake and all my prayers were vain. O take the sacrament, my child, and check these tears that flow. By resignations, humble prayer, O hallowed be thy woe. No sacrament can quench this fire, or slake this scorching pain. No sacrament can bid the dead arise and live again. O break my heart, O break at once, be thou my God despair. Heaven's heaviest blow has fallen on me, and vain each fruitless prayer. O enter not in judgment, Lord, with thy frail child of clay. She knows not what her tongue has spoken. Pute it not, I pray. For bear my child this desperate woe, and turn to God and grace. Walk in devotions, heavenly glow, convert thy bale to bliss. O mother, mother, what is bliss? O mother, what is bale? Without my William, what were heaven? Or with him, what were hell? Wild, she arranged the eternal doom, upraids each sacred power. Till spent she sought her silent room, all in the lonely tower. She beat her breast, she wrung her hands, till sun and day were over, and through the glimmering lattice shone the twinkling of the star. Then crash the heavy drawbridge fell, that over the moat was hung, and clatter, clatter, on its boards, the hoof of Corsa rung. The clank of echoing steel was heard, as off the rider bounded, and slowly on the winding stair, a heavy footstep sounded, and hark, and hark, a knock, tap, tap, a rustling, stifled noise, door latch, and tinkling, staples ring at length, a whispering voice. Awake, awake, arise my love, how hell and dost thou fare, wakest thou or sleepest, laughest thou or weepest, hast thought on me, my fare? My love, my love, so late by night, I waked, I wept for thee, much have I borne since dawn of morn, where William couldst thou be? We settled late from Hungary, I rode since darkness fell, and till it's borne we both return, before the matten bell. O rest this night within my arms, and warm thee in their fold, chill howls through a hawthorn bush the wind, my love is deadly cold. Let the wind howl through a hawthorn bush, this night we must away, the steed is white, the spur is bright, I cannot stay till day. Busk, busk, and borne, thou mountest behind upon my black barbed steed, over stock and style, a hundred miles we haste to bridle bed. Tonight, tonight, a hundred miles, O dearest William, stay, the bell strikes twelve, dark dismal hour, O wait my love till day. Look here, look here, the moon shines clear, full fast I wean we ride, mount and away, for ere the day, we reach our bridle bed. The black barbed snorts, the bridle rings, haste, busk, turn and seat thee, the feast is made, the chamber spread, the bridle guests await thee. Strong love prevailed, she busks, she bonds, she mounts the barb behind, and round her darling William's waist, her lily arms she twined, and hurry, hurry, off they rode, as fast as fast might be, spurned from the courses, thundering heels, the flashing pebbles flee, and on the right and on the left, ere they could snatch a view, fast, fast, each mountain, mead and plain, and cot, and castle flew, sit fast, dost fear, the moon shines clear, fleet rides my barb, keep hold, first thou, oh no, she faintly said, but why so stern and cold? What yonder rings, what yonder sings, why shrieks the owl at gray? Tis death bells clang, tis funeral song, from the body to the clay, with song and clang at morrow's dawn, ye may inter the dead. Tonight I ride with my young bride, to deck our bridle bed. Come with thy choir, thou coffin'd guest, to swell our nuptial song. Come, priest, to bless our marriage feast, come all, come all along. Seized clang and song, down sunk the beer, the shrouded corpse arose, and hurry, hurry, call the train the thundering steed pursues, and forward, forward on they go, high snorts the straining steed, thick pants the rider's laboring breath, as headlong on they speed. O William, why this savage haste, and where thy bridle bed, tis distant far, still short and stern, tis narrow, trustless made? No room for me, enough for both. Speed, speed, my barb, by course, over thundering bridge, through boiling surge, he drove the furious horse, tramp, tramp, along the land they rode. Splash, splash, along the sea, the steed is white, the spur is bright, the flashing pebbles flee. Fled past on right and left, how fast each forest grove and bower. On right and left, fled past, how fast each city, town and tower. Dost fear, dost fear, the moon shines clear, dost fear to ride with me? Hurrah, hurrah, the dead can ride, O William, let them be. See there, see there, what yonder swings and creeks mid whistling rain, gibbet and steel the accursed wheel, a murderer in his chain. Allel thou, felon, follow here, to bridle bed we ride, and thou shalt prance a fetter dance for me and my bride. And hurrah, hurrah, clash, clash, clash, the wasted form descends, and fleet as wind, through hazel bush, the wild career attends. Trap, trap, along the land they rode. Splash, splash, along the sea, the scourge is red, the spur drops blood, the flashing pebbles flee. How fled what moonshine faintly showed, how fled what darkness hid, how fled the earth beneath their feet, the heaven above their head. Dost fear, dost fear, the moonshine's clear, and well the dead can ride. Does faithful Helen fear for them? O leave in peace the dead. Barb, Barb, me thinks I hear the cock, the sand will soon be run. Barb, Barb, I smell the morning air, the race is well nigh done. Trap, trap, along the land they rode. Splash, along the sea, the scourge is red, the spur drops blood, the flashing pebbles flee. Hurrah, hurrah, well ride the dead, the bride, the bride is come, and soon we reach the bridal bed for Helen. Here's my home, reluctant on its rusty hinge, revolved an iron door, and by the pale moon's setting beam were seen a church and tower, with many a shriek and cry whizz round the birds at midnight scared, and rustling like autumnal leaves, unhallowed ghosts were heard. Over many a tomb and tombstone pale he spurred the fiery horse, till sudden, at an open grave, he checked the wondrous course. A fallen gauntlet quits the rain, down drops the cask of steel. The curass leaves his shrinking side, the spur his gory heal. The eyes desert the naked skull, the mouldering fleshed the bone, till Helen's lily arms entwine a ghastly skeleton. The furious barb snorts fire and foam, and with a fearful bound, dissolves at once in empty air, and leaves her on the ground. Half seen by fits, by fits half heard, pale spectras fleet along. We'll round the maid in dismal dance, and howl the funeral song, even when the hearts with anguish cleft revere the doom of heaven. Her soul is from her body reft, her spirit be forgiven. End of Part 2. Recorded by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com The Fire King. This is Part 3 of the translations and imitations of German balance by Sir Walter Scott. This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com Translations and imitations of German balance by Sir Walter Scott. Part 3. The Fire King. Bold knights and fair dames to my harp give an ear of love and of war and of wonder to hear, and you happily may sigh in the midst of your glee at the tail of Count Albert and fair Rosalie. O see you that castle so strong and so high, and see you that lady, the tear in her eye, and see you that Palmer from Palestine's land, the shell on his hat, and the staff in his hand. Now Palmer, great Palmer, O tell unto me from the holy country and how goes the warfare by Galilee's strand and how fare our nobles the flower of the land. O well goes the warfare by Galilee's wave for Gilead and Nablu and Rama we have and welfare our nobles by Mount Lebanon, for the heathen have lost and the Christians have won. A rich chain of gold bringlets their hung over the Palmer's grey locks but their chain has she flung. O Palmer, great Palmer, this chain be thy fee for the news thou hast brought from the holy country. O Palmer, good Palmer, by Galilee's wave, O saw ye Count Albert, the gentle and brave, when the Crescent went back and the Red Cross rushed on, O saw ye him foremost O Lady, fair Lady, the tree green it grows O Lady, fair Lady, the stream pure it flows your castle stands strong and your hopes soar on high but Lady, fair Lady, all blossoms to die the green boughs they wither the thunderbolt falls it leaves of your castle but leaven scorched walls the pure stream runs muddy the gay hope is gone Count Albert is prisoner on Mount Lebanon O, she's taken a horse should be fleet at her speed and she's taken a sword should be sharp at her need and she's taken shipping for Palestine's land to ransom Count Albert from soldery's hand small thought had Count Albert on fair Rosalie small thought on his faith or his knighthood had he his light heart had won the soldier's fair daughter of Mount Lebanon O Christian, brave Christian my love wouldst thou be three things must thou do air I harken to thee our laws and our worship on thee shalt thou take and this thou shalt first do the zoo lemurs' sake and next in the cavern where burns evermore the mystical flame which the curdemans adore alone and in silence three nights shalt thou wake and this thou shalt next do the zoo lemurs' sake and last thou shalt aid us with counsel and hand to drive the Frank robber from Palestine's land for my lord and my love then Count Albert I'll take when all this is accomplished for zoo lemurs' sake he's thrown by his helmet a handled sword renouncing his knighthood denying his lord he's taken the green caftan and turban put on for the love of the maiden of fair Lebanon and in the dread cavern deep deep underground which fifty steel gates and steel portals surround he has watched until daybreak but sight saw he none save the flame burning bright amazed was the princess the sultan amazed saw murmured the priests as on Albert they gazed they searched all his garments and under his weeds they found and took from him his rosary beads again in the cavern deep deep underground he watched the lonely knight while the winds whistled round far off was there murmur it came not more nigh one moved and naught else did he spy loud murmured the priests and amazed was the king while many dark spells of their witchcraft they sing they searched Albert's body and low on his breast was the sign of the cross by his father impressed the priests they erase it with care and with pain and the requerient returned to the cavern again as he descended a whisper there fell it was his good angel who bade him fair well high bristled his hair his heart fluttered and beat and he turned him five steps half resolved to retreat but his heart it was hardened his purpose was gone when he thought on the maiden of fair Lebanon scarce past he the archway lands from the four points of heaven were abroad they made each steel portal to rattle and ring and born on the blast came the dread fire king full saw rocked the cavern whenever he drew nigh the fire on the altar blazed bickering and high in volcanic explosions for mountains proclaim the dreadful approach of the monarch of flame in height, undistinguished in form his breath it was lightning his voice it was storm I weaned the stout heart of Count Albert was tame when he saw in his terrors the monarch of flame in his hand a broad fulcrum blue glimmered through smoke and Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch he spoke with this brand shout thou conquer thus long no more till thou bend to the cross and the virgin adore the cloud shrouded arm gives the weapon and sea the requriant receives the charmed gift on his knee the thunders growl distant and faint gleam the fires has borne on his whirlwind the phantom retires Count Albert has armed him the pain among though his heart it was false arm it was strong and the red cross waxed paint and the crescent came on from the day he commanded on Mount Lebanon from Lebanon's forests to Galilee's wave the sands of Samar drank the blood of the brave till the nights of the temple and nights of Saint John with Salem's King Baldwin against him came on the war symbols clattered the trumpets replied the lancers were couched and they closed on each side and horsemen and horses Count Albert overthrew till he pierced the thick tumult King Baldwin too against the charmed blade which Count Albert did wield the fence had been vain of the king's red cross shield but a page thrust him forward the monarch before the turban the renegade war so fell was the dint that Count Albert stooped low before the crossed shield to his steel saddlebow and scarce had he bent to the red cross his head on grass Notre Dame he unwittingly said saw side the charmed sword for his virtue was ore it sprung from his grasp and was never more but true men have said that the lightning's red wing did waft back the brand to the dread fire king he clenched his set teeth and his gauntleted hand he stretched with one buffet that page on the strand as back from the stripling the broken cask rolled you might see the blue eyes and the ringlets of gold short time had to count Albert to stare on those death swimming eyeballs and blood cluttered hair the down came the templates like cedron in flood and died their long lances in saracan blood the saracans curdemans and ishmaelites yield to the scallop the saltier and cross littered shield and the eagles were gorged with the infidel dead from Bethsaida's fountains to naftalize head the battle is over on Bethsaida's plane oh who was young panum lies stretched mid the slain and who was young page lying cold at his knee oh who but count Albert and fair Rosalie the lady was buried in salons blessed bound the count he was left to the vulture and hound her soul to high mercy our lady did bring his went blessed to the dread fire king yet many a minstrel in harping can tell how the red cross it conquered and the crescent it fell and lords and gay ladies have sighed mid their glee at the tail of count Albert and fair Rosalie end of part 3 recorded by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com Frederick and Alice this is part 4 of the translations and imitations of German ballads by Sir Walter Scott this is a LibriVox recording or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com translations and imitations of German ballads by Sir Walter Scott part 4 Frederick and Alice Frederick leaves the land of France homewards hastes his steps to measure careless casts the parting glance on the scene of former pleasure join in his prancing steed keen to prove his untried blade hopes gay dreams the soldier lead over mountain war and glade helpless ruined left for lawn lovely Alice wept alone mourned over love's fond contract torn hope and peace and honor flown mark her breasts convulsive throbs see the tear of anguish flows mingling soon with bursting sobs loud the laugh of frenzy rose wild she cursed and wild she prayed seven long days and nights before death in pity wrought his aid as the village bell struck four far from her and far from France faithless Frederick onward rides marking live the morning's glance mantling over the mountains sides heard ye not the boating sound as the tongue of yonder tower to the hills around told the forth the fated hour starts the steed and snuffs the air yet no cause of dread appears bristles high the rider's hair struck with strange mysterious fears desperate as his terrors rise in the steed the spur he hides from himself in vain anxious, restless on he rides seven long days and seven long nights wild he wandered woe the while ceaseless care and causeless fright urge his footsteps many a mile dark the seventh sad night descends rivers swell and rain streams pour while the deafening all the terrors of its roar weary wet and spent with toil where his head shall Frederick hide where but in yarn ruined isle by the lightning's flash described to the portal dank and low fast his steed the wanderer bound down a ruined staircase slow next to his darkling way he wound laundry of alts before him lie glimmering lights a-seeing to glide blessed Mary hear my cry dine a sinner's steps to guide often lost their quivering being still the lights move slow before till they rest their ghastly gleam door thundering voices from within mixed with peels of laughter rose as they fell a solemn strain lent its wild and wondrous clothes midst the dim he seemed to hear voice of friends by death removed well he knew that solemn air twas the lay that Alice loved hark for now a solemn nil four times on the still night broke four times at its deadened swell echoes from the ruins spoke as the lengthened clangers die slowly opes the iron door straight a banquet met his eye but a funerals form it wore coffins for the seats extend all with black the board was spread dirt by parent brother friend long since numbered with the dead Alice in her grave clothes bound ghastly smiling points a seat all arose with thundering sound all the expected stranger greet high their meager arms they wave wild their notes of welcome swell welcome traitor to the grave bid the light farewell end of part four recorded by Nathan at antipodeonwriter.wordpress.com the Earl King this is part five of the translations and imitations of German ballads by Sir Walter Scott this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Nathan at antipodeonwriter.wordpress.com translations and imitations of German ballads by Sir Walter Scott part five the Earl King oh who rides by night through the woodland so wild it is the fond father embracing his child and close the boy nestles within his loved arm and tempest to keep himself warm oh father see yonder see yonder he says my boy upon what dost they fearfully gaze oh it is the Earl King with his staff and his shroud no my love it is but a dark wreath of the cloud oh who they'll go with me by loveliest child by many gay sports shall by ours be begone my mother keeps all the toy and many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy oh father my father and did you not hear the Earl King whisper so close in my ear he's still my loved darling my child be at ease it was but the wild blast as it held through the trees oh who they'll go with me by loveliest boy my daughter shall tend the with care and with joy they'll barely so lightly through wet and through wild and hug thee and kiss thee and sing to my child oh father my father and saw you not playing the Earl King's pal daughter glide past through the rain oh no my heart's treasure I knew it full soon it was the grey willow that danced to the moon come with me come with me no longer delay be away oh father oh father now keep your hold the Earl King has seized me his grasp is so cold saw trembled the father he spurred through the wild clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child he reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread but clasped to his bosom the infant was dead End of Part 5 End of the Translations and Imitations of German Balance by Sir Walter Scott Recorded by Nathan at antipodianwriter.wordpress.com