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Tantivy, tantivy!

Is cried through the winds,

Through wild winter midnight,

Through frost-world so dim,

Through storms and the rolling

Of thunder and blast,

O’er frore land thick-coated

In crystal and glass,

O’er snows of the north-realms.

Sound horns – and the shout

Tantivy, tantivy!

Booms harsh from the clouds!

A specter, a phantom:

’Bove pines and the ash

A figure is riding

Upon lightning’s flash,

Upon the cold ice-swirl,

Upon breezes’ backs;

Upon the black tree-tops 

It hoofs – oh, alas,

That figure of terror!

A god and his horse:

A crowned god that gallops,

A god in his force

With lance and with bugle,

With reins that he slaps,

With horror in countenance,

With death as his lash,

With hounds round his heels,

All ghost-like and grim,

With crash and with barking

His terrible hymn;

With sweeps and hallooing,

With cursing and calls,

With tempest and rancor

He sings on the squalls:

He sings – all of death! –

And his voice is the growl

Of cracks in the dark sky,

Of fast breezes’ howl.

And more and more join him,

His dogs and his men,

All spectral, ghost-awful,

That throng making din –

Knights spurring sprite-horses,

And vassals their steeds,

Each hunter horn winding,

Each set on fell deeds – 

Such rush of the king’s crowd

That frights folks below,

Through skies swiftly dashing,

Through moon’s ghoulish glow

Some stag or boar chasing,

Some phantasm-prey…

And awed eyes that midnight

Watch throng on its way

By new shades accompanied,

By souls from the ground –

By dead that are rising

To hark to horns’ sounds –

O’er houses, barnhouses,

The yards and the pens,

O’er huts and the hamlets,

O’er roofs blanketed

By winter’s chill dusting –

Away, high as hawks

That concourse rides headlong 

Where storm-giants walk,

Where whirlings of raindrops

’Hind gray fronts are pent;

And o’er dark horizon

The hunt soon hath sped.

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Now storm is abating,

Now winds are but breaths,

And stillness of winter

Brings quiet and rest…

But ’mid that drear moonlight,

And ’mid such cold moon,

The folks in their hovels

Know Death shall ride soon.

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(Wotan’s Wild Hunt by Friedrich Wilhelm Heine)

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