The way was lone, and the hour was late,
  And Sir Rudolph was far from his castle gate. 
  The night came down, by slow degrees,
  On the river stream, and the forest-trees;
  And by the heat of the heavy air,
  And by the lightning’s distant glare,
  And by the rustling of the woods,
  And by the roaring of the floods,
  In half an hour, a man might say,
  The Spirit of Storm would ride that way. 
  But little he cared, that stripling pale,
  For the sinking sun, or the rising gale;
  For he, as he rode, was dreaming now,
  Poor youth, of a woman’s broken vow,
  Of the cup dashed down, ere the wine was tasted,
  Of eloquent speeches sadly wasted,
  Of a gallant heart all burnt to ashes. 
  And the Baron of Katzberg’s long mustaches,
  So the earth below, and the heaven above,
  He saw them not;—­those dreams of love,
  As some have found, and some will find,
  Make men extremely deaf and blind. 
  At last he opened his great blue eyes,
  And looking about in vast surprise,
  Found that his hunter had turned his back,
  An hour ago on the beaten track,
  And now was threading a forest hoar,
  Where steed had never stepped before.

  “By Caesar’s head,” Sir Rudolph said,
      “It were a sorry joke. 
  If I to-night should make my bed
      On the turf, beneath an oak! 
  Poor Roland reeks from head to hoof;—­
      Now, for thy sake, good roan,
  I would we were beneath a roof,
      Were it the foul fiend’s own!”

  Ere the tongue could rest, ere the lips could close
  The sound of a listener’s laughter rose. 
  It was not the scream of a merry boy
  When harlequin waves his wand of joy;
  Nor the shout from a serious curate, won
  By a bending bishop’s annual pun;
  Nor the roar of a Yorkshire clown;—­oh, no! 
  It was a gentle laugh, and low;
  Half uttered, perhaps, perhaps, and stifled half,
  A good old-gentlemanly laugh;
  Such as my uncle Peter’s are,
  When he tells you his tales of Dr. Parr. 
  The rider looked to the left and the right,
  With something of marvel, and more of fright: 
  But brighter gleamed his anxious eye,
  When a light shone out from a hill hard by. 
  Thither be spurred, as gay and glad
  As Mrs. Maquill’s delighted lad,
  When he turns away from the Pleas of the Crown,
  Or flings, with a yawn, old Saunders down,
  And flies, at last, from all the mysteries
  Of Plaintiffs’ and Defendants’ histories,
  To make himself sublimely neat,
  For Mrs. Camac’s in Mansfield Street. 
    At a lofty gate Sir Rudolph halted;
  Down from his seat Sir Rudolph vaulted: 
  And he blew a blast with might and main,
  On the bugle that hung by an iron chain. 
  The sound called up a score of sounds;—­
  The screeching of owls, and the baying of hounds,
  The hollow toll of the turret bell,