A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL.
Night veil'd the mountains of the vine,
And storms had rous'd the foaming Rhine,
And, mingling with the pinewood's roar,
Its billows hoarsely chaf'd the shore,
While glen and cavern, to their moans,
Gave answer, with a thousand tones:
Then, as the voice of storms appall'd
The peasant of the Odenwald*[1],
Shuddering he deem’d, that, far on high,
'Twas the wild huntsman rushing by,
Riding the blast with phantom speed,
With cry of hound, and tramp of steed,
While his fierce train, as on they flew,
Their horns in savage chorus blew,
Till rock, and tower, and convent round,
Rung to the shrill unearthly sound.
Vain dreams! far other footsteps trac'd
The forest paths, in secret haste;
Far other sounds were on the night,
Though lost amidst the tempest's might,
That fill'd the echoing earth and sky,
With its own awful harmony.
- ↑ * The Odenwald, a forest-district near the Rhine, adjoining the territories of Darmstadt.
