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In the Saddle
A COLLECTION OF POEMS ON HORSEBACK-RIDING
"A good rider on a good horse is as much above himself and others as the world can make him"
Lord Herbert of Cherbury
BOSTON HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1882 Copyright, 1882, By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. All rights reserved. The Riverside Press, Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
CONTENTS.
Page
Description of a Horse. Venus and Adonis 1
A Day's Ride: A Life's Analogy. The Spectator 2
On Horseback. E. Paxton Hood 3
The Horseback Ride. Sara Jane Lippincott (Grace Greenwood) 4
An Evening Ride. Owen Innsly 7
The Queen's Ride. T. B. Aldrich 8
The Last Ride together. Robert Browning 9
Riding together. William Morris 13
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. Alfred Tennyson 15
The King of Denmark's Ride. Hon. Caroline Norton 17
Rhyme of the Duchess May. Elizabeth Barrett Browning 19
Irmingard's Escape. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 37
William and Helen. Bürger's "Leonore." Translated by Sir Walter Scott 42
The Greeting on Kynast. Rückert. Translated by C. T. Brooks 52
Harras, the Bold Leaper. Karl Theodor Körner. Translated by G. F. Richardson 57
The Knight's Leap. Charles Kingsley 60
The Leap of Roushan Beg. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 61
Annan Water 64
Thomas the Rhymer 66
The Greek Gnome. Robert Buchanan 70
Friar Pedro's Ride. Bret Harte 73
Tam O'Shanter. Robert Burns 79
The Wild Huntsman. Bürger's Wilde Jäger. Tr. by Walter Scott 86
Lützow's Wild Chase. Theodor Körner 94
The Erl-King. Walter Scott 96
Mazeppa's Ride. Byron 98
The Giaour's Ride. Byron 110
The Norseman's Ride. Bayard Taylor
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href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@39236@[email protected]#Page_113" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">113
Boot and Saddle. Robert Browning 116
The Cavalier's Escape. Walter Thornbury 116
King James's Ride. Walter Scott 118
Deloraine's Ride. Walter Scott 119
Godiva. Alfred Tennyson 124
How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix. Robert Browning 127
The Landlord's Tale. H. W. Longfellow 130
Sheridan's Ride. Thomas Buchanan Read 135
Kearny at Seven Pines. Edmund Clarence Stedman 138
The Ride of Collins Graves. John Boyle O'Reilly 140
A Tale of Providence. Isaac R. Pennybacker 143
Kit Carson's Ride. Joaquin Miller 149
Taming the Wild Horse. W. G. Simms 155
Chiquita. Bret Harte 157
Bay Billy. Frank H. Gassaway 160
Widderin's Race. Paul Hamilton Hayne 164
The Diverting History of John Gilpin. William Cowper 174
Reflections of a Proud Pedestrian. Oliver Wendell Holmes 184
Boot and Saddle. Robert Browning 116
The Cavalier's Escape. Walter Thornbury 116
King James's Ride. Walter Scott 118
Deloraine's Ride. Walter Scott 119
Godiva. Alfred Tennyson 124
How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix. Robert Browning 127
The Landlord's Tale. H. W. Longfellow 130
Sheridan's Ride. Thomas Buchanan Read 135
Kearny at Seven Pines. Edmund Clarence Stedman 138
The Ride of Collins Graves. John Boyle O'Reilly 140
A Tale of Providence. Isaac R. Pennybacker 143
Kit Carson's Ride. Joaquin Miller 149
Taming the Wild Horse. W. G. Simms 155
Chiquita. Bret Harte 157
Bay Billy. Frank H. Gassaway 160
Widderin's Race. Paul Hamilton Hayne 164
The Diverting History of John Gilpin. William Cowper 174
Reflections of a Proud Pedestrian. Oliver Wendell Holmes 184
IN THE SADDLE.
DESCRIPTION OF A HORSE.
Look, when a painter would surpass the life, In limning out a well-proportioned steed, His art with nature's workmanship at strife, As if the dead the living should exceed; So did this horse excel a common one, In shape, in courage, color, pace, and bone.
Round-hoofed, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long, Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide, High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong, Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: Look, what a horse should have, he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
Venus and Adonis.
A DAY'S RIDE: A LIFE'S ANALOGY.
'Mid tangled forest and o'er grass plains wide, By many a devious path and bridle-way, Through the short brightness of an Indian day, In middle winter 'twas my lot to ride, Skirting the round-topped, pine-clad mountain side, While far away upon the steely blue Horizon, half concealèd, half in view, Himalay's peaks upreared their snow-crowned pride, In utter purity and vast repose. I, ere the first faint flush of morning glowed Within her eastern chamber, took the road, And, slowly riding between day and night, I marked how, through the wan, imperfect light, Ghost-like and gray loomed the eternal snows.
So near they seemed, each crack and crevice small Like bas-relief work showed, while in the light Of ruddy morn, gray changed through pink to white. But soon the sun, up-climbing, flooded all The heavens, and then a thin and misty pall Of exhalations rose, and pale of hue And fainter ever those far summits grew, Until the day waned low, and shadows tall Sloped eastward. Then once more, in radiance clear, Of setting sunlight, beautiful as brief, Each peak and crag stood out in bold relief, Till, slowly, pink faded to ghostly gray.
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class="i2">So through life's morning, noontide, evening, may Ideal hopes dawn, fade, and reappear.
The Spectator.
ON HORSEBACK.
Hurrah! for a ride in the morning gray, On the back of a bounding steed. What pleasure to list how the wild winds play; Hark! Hark! to their music,—away! away! Gallop away with speed. 'Neath the leaf and the cloud in spring-time's pride There is health in a morning's joyous ride.
And hurrah! for a ride in the sultry noon, When the summer has mounted high, 'Neath the shady wood in the glowing June, When the rivulet chanteth its lullaby tune To the breeze as it wanders by, Quietly down by the brooklet's side;— Sweet is the summer's joyous ride.
And do you not love at evening's hour, By the light of the sinking sun, To wend your way o'er the widening moor, Where the silvery mists their mystery pour, While the stars come one by one? Over the heath by the mountain's side, Pensive and sweet is the evening's ride.
I tell thee, O stranger, that unto me The plunge of a fiery steed Is a noble thought,—to the brave and free It is music, and breath, and majesty,— 'Tis the life of a noble deed; And the heart and the mind are in spirit allied In the charm of a morning's glorious ride.
Then hurrah! for the ring of the bridle rein,— Away, brave horse, away! The preacher or poet may chant their strain, The bookman his wine of the past may drain,— We bide not with them to-day; And yet it is true, we may look with pride On the mental spoils of a morning's ride.
E. Paxton Hood.
THE HORSEBACK RIDE.
When troubled in spirit, when weary of life, When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink from its strife, When its fruits, turned to ashes, are mocking my taste, And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste, Then come ye not near me, my sad heart to cheer With friendship's soft accents or sympathy's tear. No pity I ask, and no counsel I need, But bring me, oh, bring me my gallant young steed, With his high archèd neck, and his nostril spread wide, His eye full of fire, and his step full of pride! As I spring to his back, as I seize the strong rein, The strength to my spirit returneth again! The bonds are all broken that fettered my mind, And my cares borne away on the wings of the wind; My pride lifts its head, for a season bowed down, And the queen in my nature now puts on her crown!
Now we're off—like the winds to the plains whence they came; And the rapture of motion is thrilling my frame! On, on speeds my courser, scarce printing the sod, Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he trod! On, on like a deer, when the hound's early bay Awakes the wild echoes, away, and away! Still faster, still farther, he leaps at my cheer, Till the rush of the startled air whirs in my ear! Now 'long a clear rivulet lieth his track,— See his glancing hoofs tossing the white pebbles back! Now a glen dark as midnight—what matter?—we'll down Though shadows are round us, and rocks o'er us frown; The thick branches shake as we're hurrying through, And deck us with spangles of silvery dew!
What a wild thought of triumph, that this girlish hand Such a steed in the might of his strength may command! What a glorious creature! Ah! glance at him now, As I check him a while on this green hillock's brow; How he tosses his mane, with a shrill joyous neigh, And paws the firm earth in his proud, stately play! Hurrah! off again, dashing on as in ire, Till the long, flinty pathway is flashing with fire! Ho! a ditch!—Shall we pause? No; the bold leap we dare, Like a swift-wingèd arrow we rush through the air! Oh, not all the pleasures that poets may praise, Not the 'wildering waltz in the ball-room's blaze, Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race, Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase, Nor the sail, high heaving waters o'er, Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore, Can the wild and thrilling joy exceed Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed!
Sara Jane Lippincott (Grace Greenwood).
AN EVENING RIDE.
FROM GLASHÜTTE TO MÜGELN IN SAXONY.
We ride and ride. High on the hills The fir-trees stretch into the sky; The birches, which the deep calm stills, Quiver again as we speed by.
Beside the road a shallow stream Goes leaping o'er its rocky bed: Here lie the corn-fields with a gleam Of daisies white and poppies red.
A faint star trembles in the west; A fire-fly sparkles, fluttering bright Against the mountain's sombre breast; And yonder shines a village light.
Oh! could I creep into thine arms Beloved! and upon thy face Read the arrest of dire alarms That press me close; from thy embrace
View the sweet earth as on we ride. Alas! how vain our longings are! Already night is spreading wide Her sable wing, and thou art
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far.
Owen Innsly.
THE QUEEN'S RIDE.
AN INVITATION.
'Tis that fair time of year, Lady mine, When stately Guinevere, In her sea-green robe and hood, Went a-riding through the wood, Lady mine.
And as the Queen did ride, Lady mine, Sir Launcelot at her side Laughed and chatted, bending over, Half her friend and all her lover, Lady mine.
And as they rode along, Lady mine, The throstle gave them song, And the buds peeped through the grass To see youth and beauty pass, Lady mine.
And on, through deathless time, Lady mine, These lovers in their prime, (Two fairy ghosts together!) Ride, with sea-green robe, and feather! Lady mine.
And so we two will ride, Lady mine, At your pleasure, side by side, Laugh and chat; I bending over, Half your friend and all your lover! Lady mine.
But if you like not this, Lady mine, And take my love amiss, Then I'll ride unto the end, Half your lover, all your friend! Lady mine.
So, come which way you will, Lady mine, Vale, upland, plain, and hill Wait your coming. For one day Loose the bridle, and away! Lady mine.
T. B. Aldrich.
THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER.
I said—Then, dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be— My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,—I claim Only a memory of the same, —And this beside, if you will not blame, Your leave for one more last ride with me.
My mistress bent that brow of hers, Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance—Right! The blood replenished me again: My last thought was at least not vain. I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night?
Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions—sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once— And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!— Thus leant she and lingered—joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast.
Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated,—who can tell? Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds? We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side. I thought, All labor, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty Done the Undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me. Here we ride.
What hand and brain went ever paired? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There's many a crown for who can reach Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave.
What does it all mean, poet? well, Your brain's beat into rhythm—you tell What we felt only; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much—but then, Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time— Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turned a rhyme? Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.
And you, great sculptor—so you gave A score of years to art, her slave, And that's your Venus—whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With
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notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, "Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!" I gave my youth—but we ride, in fine.
Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being; had I signed the bond— Still one must lead some life beyond, —Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest— Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.
And yet—she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be, that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither life's flower if first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two, With life forever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,— And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, forever ride?
Robert Browning.
RIDING TOGETHER.
For many, many days together The wind blew steady from the east; For many days hot grew the weather, About the time of our Lady's Feast.
For many days we rode together, Yet met we neither friend nor foe; Hotter and clearer grew the weather, Steadily did the east-wind blow.
We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather, Clear-cut, with shadows very black, As freely we rode on together With helms unlaced and bridles slack.
And often as we rode together, We, looking down the green-banked stream, Saw flowers in the sunny weather, And saw the bubble-making bream.
And in the night lay down together, And hung above our heads the rood, Or watched night-long in the dewy weather, The while the moon did watch the wood.
Our spears stood bright and thick together, Straight out the banners streamed behind, As we galloped on in the sunny weather, With faces turned towards the wind.
Down sank our threescore spears together, As thick we saw the pagans ride; His eager face in the clear fresh weather Shone out that last time by my side.
Up the sweep of the bridge we dashed together, It rocked to the crash of the meeting spears; Down rained the buds of the dear spring weather, The elm-tree flowers fell like tears.
There, as we rolled and writhed together, I threw my arms above my head, For close by my side, in the lovely weather, I saw him reel and fall back dead.
I and the slayer met together, He waited the death-stroke there in his place, With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather Gapingly mazed at my maddened face.
Madly I fought as we fought together; In vain: the little Christian band The pagans drowned, as in stormy weather The river drowns low-lying land.
They bound my blood-stained hands together, They bound his corpse to nod by my side: Then on we rode, in the bright March weather, With clash of cymbals did we ride.
We ride no more, no more together; My prison-bars are thick and strong, I take no heed of any weather, The sweet Saints grant I live not long.
William Morris.
SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE.
A FRAGMENT.
Like souls that balance joy and pain, With tears and smiles from heaven again The maiden Spring upon the plain Came in a sunlit fall of rain. In crystal vapor everywhere Blue isles of heaven laughed between, And far, in forest-deeps unseen, The topmost elm-tree gathered green From draughts of balmy air.
Sometimes the linnet piped his song: Sometimes the throstle whistled strong: Sometimes the sparhawk, wheeled along, Hushed all the groves from fear of wrong: By grassy capes with fuller sound In curves the yellowing river ran, And drooping chestnut-buds began To spread into the perfect fan, Above the teeming ground.
Then, in the boyhood of the year, Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere Rode through the coverts of the deer, With blissful treble ringing clear. She seemed a part of joyous Spring: A gown of grass-green silk she wore, Buckled with golden clasps before; A light-green tuft of plumes she bore Closed in a golden ring.
Now on some twisted ivy-net, Now by some tinkling rivulet, In mosses mixt with violet Her cream-white mule his pastern set: And fleeter now she skimmed the plains Than she whose elfin prancer springs By night to eery warblings, When all the glimmering moorland rings With jingling bridle-reins.
As she
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fled fast through sun and shade, The happy winds upon her played, Blowing the ringlet from the braid: She looked so lovely, as she swayed The rein with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.
Alfred Tennyson.
THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.
Word was brought to the Danish king, Hurry! That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; O, ride as though you were flying! Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl; And his rose of the isles is dying!
Thirty nobles saddled with speed; Hurry! Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; O, ride as though you were flying! Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; But ride as they would, the king rode first, For his rose of the isles lay dying!
His nobles are beaten, one by one; Hurry! They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying! The king looked back at that faithful child; Wan was the face that answering smiled; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped; and only the king rode in Where his rose of the isles lay dying!
The king blew a blast on his bugle-horn; Silence! No answer came; but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide; None welcomed the king from that weary ride; For dead, in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying!
The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary. The king returned from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast; And, that dumb companion eying, The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck; "O steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain To the halls where my love lay dying!"
Hon. Caroline Norton.
RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY.
Broad the forests stood (I read) on the hills of Linteged— Toll slowly. And three hundred years had stood mute adown each hoary wood, Like a full heart having prayed.
And the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,— Toll slowly. And but little thought was theirs of the silent antique years, In the building of their nest.
Down the sun dropt large and red, on the towers of Linteged,— Toll slowly. Lance and spear upon the height, bristling strange in fiery light, While the castle stood in shade.
There, the castle stood up black, with the red sun at its back,— Toll slowly. Like a sullen smouldering pyre, with a top that flickers fire, When the wind is on its track.
And five hundred archers tall did besiege the castle wall,— Toll slowly. And the castle seethed in blood, fourteen days and nights had stood, And to-night, was near its fall.
Yet thereunto, blind to doom, three months since, a bride did come,— Toll slowly. One who proudly trod the floors, and softly whispered in the doors, "May good angels bless our home."
Oh, a bride of queenly eyes, with a front of constancies,— Toll slowly. Oh, a bride of cordial mouth,—where the untired smile of youth Did light outward its own sighs.
'Twas a Duke's fair orphan-girl, and her uncle's ward, the Earl, Toll slowly. Who betrothed her, twelve years old, for the sake of dowry gold, To his son Lord Leigh, the churl.
But what time she had made good all her years of womanhood, Toll slowly. Unto both those Lords of Leigh, spake she out right sovranly, "My will runneth as my blood.
"And while this same blood makes red this same right hand's veins," she said,— Toll slowly. "'Tis my will as lady free, not to wed a Lord of Leigh, But Sir Guy of Linteged."
The old Earl he smiled smooth, then he sighed for willful youth,— Toll slowly. "Good my niece, that hand withal looketh somewhat soft and small For so large a will, in sooth."
She, too, smiled by that same sign,—but her smile was cold and fine,— Toll slowly. "Little hand clasps muckle gold, or it were not worth the hold Of thy son, good uncle mine!"
Then the young lord jerked his breath, and sware thickly in his teeth,— Toll slowly. "He would wed his own betrothed, an she loved him an she loathed, Let the life come or the
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death."
Up she rose with scornful eyes, as her father's child might rise,— Toll slowly. "Thy hound's blood, my Lord of Leigh, stains thy knightly heel," quoth she, "And he moans not where he lies.
"But a woman's will dies hard, in the hall or on the sward!"— Toll slowly. "By that grave, my lords, which made me orphaned girl and dowered lady, I deny you wife and ward."
Unto each she bowed her head, and swept past with lofty tread. Toll slowly. Ere the midnight-bell had ceased, in the chapel had the priest Blessed her, bride of Linteged.
Fast and fain the bridal train along the night-storm rode amain:— Toll slowly. Hard the steeds of lord and serf struck their hoofs out on the turf, In the pauses of the rain.
Fast and fain the kinsmen's train along the storm pursued amain— Toll slowly. Steed on steed-track, dashing off—thickening, doubling, hoof on hoof, In the pauses of the rain.
And the bridegroom led the flight on his red-roan steed of might,— Toll slowly. And the bride lay on his arm, still, as if she feared no harm, Smiling out into the night.
"Dost thou fear?" he said at last;—"Nay!" she answered him in haste,— Toll slowly. "Not such death as we could find—only life with one behind— Ride on fast as fear—ride fast!"
Up the mountain wheeled the steed—girth to ground, and fetlocks spread,— Toll slowly. Headlong bounds, and rocking flanks,—down he staggered—down the banks, To the towers of Linteged.
High and low the serfs looked out, red the flambeaus tossed about,— Toll slowly. In the courtyard rose the cry—"Live the Duchess and Sir Guy!" But she never heard them shout.
On the steed she dropt her cheek, kissed his mane and kissed his neck,— Toll slowly. "I had happier died by thee, than lived on a Lady Leigh," Were the first words she did speak.
But a three months' joyaunce lay 'twixt that moment and to-day,— Toll slowly. When five hundred archers tall stand beside the castle wall, To recapture Duchess May.
And the castle standeth black, with the red sun at its back,— Toll slowly. And a fortnight's siege is done—and, except the Duchess, none Can misdoubt the coming wrack.
*....*....*....*
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,— Toll slowly. On the tower the castle's lord leant in silence on his sword, With an anguish in his breast.
With a spirit-laden weight, did he lean down passionate.— Toll slowly. They have almost sapped the wall,—they will enter therewithal, With no knocking at the gate.
Then the sword he leant upon, shivered—snapped upon the stone,— Toll slowly. "Sword," he thought, with inward laugh, "ill thou servest for a staff When thy nobler use is done!
"Sword, thy nobler use is done!—tower is lost, and shame begun"— Toll slowly. "If we met them in the breach, hilt to hilt or speech to speech, We should die there, each for one.
"If we met them at the wall, we should singly, vainly fall,"— Toll slowly. "But if I die here alone,—then I die, who am but one, And die nobly for them all.
"Five true friends lie for my sake,—in the moat and in the brake,"— Toll slowly. "Thirteen warriors lie at rest, with a black wound in the breast, And not one of these will wake.
"And no more of this shall be!—heart-blood weighs too heavily,"— Toll slowly. "And I could not sleep in grave, with the faithful and the brave Heaped around and over me.
"Since young Clare a mother hath, and young Ralph a plighted faith,"— Toll slowly. "Since my pale young sister's cheeks blush like rose when Ronald speaks, Albeit never a word she saith—
"These shall never die for me—life-blood falls too heavily."— Toll slowly. "And if I die here apart,—o'er my dead and silent heart They shall pass out safe and free.
"When the foe hath heard it said—'Death holds Guy of Linteged,'"— Toll slowly. "That new corse new peace shall bring, and a blessed, blessed thing Shall the stone be at its head.
"Then my friends shall pass out free, and shall bear my memory,"— Toll slowly. "Then my foes shall sleek their pride, soothing fair my widowed bride Whose sole sin was love of me.
"With their words all smooth and sweet, they will front her and entreat,"— Toll slowly. "And their purple pall will spread underneath her fainting head While her tears drop over it.
"She will weep her woman's tears, she will pray her woman's prayers,"— Toll slowly. "But her heart is young in pain, and her hopes will spring again By the suntime of her years.
"Ah, sweet May—ah, sweetest grief!—once I vowed thee my belief,"— Toll slowly.
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class="i0">"That thy name expressed thy sweetness,—May of poets, in completeness! Now my May-day seemeth brief."
All these silent thoughts did swim o'er his eyes grown strange and dim,— Toll slowly. Till his true men in the place wished they stood there face to face With the foe instead of him.
"One last oath, my friends that wear faithful hearts to do and dare!" Toll slowly. "Tower must fall, and bride be lost!—swear me service worth the cost!" —Bold they stood around to swear.
"Each man clasp my hand and swear, by the deed we failed in there,"— Toll slowly. "Not for vengeance, not for right, will ye strike one blow to-night!"— Pale they stood around—to swear.
"One last boon, young Ralph and Clare! faithful hearts to do and dare!"— Toll slowly. "Bring that steed up from his stall, which she kissed before you all,— Guide him up the turret-stair.
"Ye shall harness him aright, and lead upward to this height!"— Toll slowly. "Once in love and twice in war, hath he borne me strong and far, He shall bear me far to-night."
Then his men looked to and fro, when they heard him speaking so.— Toll slowly. —"'Las! the noble heart," they thought,—"he in sooth is grief-distraught. Would, we stood here with the foe!"
But a fire flashed from his eye, 'twixt their thought and their reply,— Toll slowly. "Have ye so much time to waste? We who ride here, must ride fast, As we wish our foes to fly."
They have fetched the steed with care, in the harness he did wear,— Toll slowly. Past the court and through the doors, across the rushes of the floors, But they goad him up the stair.
Then from out her bower chambère, did the Duchess May repair.— Toll slowly. "Tell me now what is your need," said the lady, "of this steed, That ye goad him up the stair?"
Calm she stood; unbodkined through, fell her dark hair to her shoe,— Toll slowly. And the smile upon her face, ere she left the tiring-glass, Had not time enough to go.
"Get thee back, sweet Duchess May! hope is gone like yesterday,"— Toll slowly. "One half-hour completes the breach; and thy lord grows wild of speech,— Get thee in, sweet lady, and pray.
"In the east tower, high'st of all,—loud he cries for steed from stall."— Toll slowly. "He would ride as far," quoth he, "as for love and victory, Though he rides the castle-wall.
"And we fetch the steed from stall, up where never a hoof did fall."— Toll slowly. "Wifely prayer meets deathly need! may the sweet Heavens hear thee plead If he rides the castle-wall."
Low she dropt her head, and lower, till her hair coiled on the floor,— Toll slowly. And tear after tear you heard, fall distinct as any word Which you might be listening for.
"Get thee in, thou soft ladye!—here, is never a place for thee!"— Toll slowly. "Braid thine hair and clasp thy gown, that thy beauty in its moan May find grace with Leigh of Leigh."
She stood up in bitter case, with a pale yet steady face, Toll slowly. Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though quivering, seems to look Right against the thunder-place.
And her foot trod in, with pride, her own tears i' the stone beside,— Toll slowly. "Go to, faithful friends, go to!—Judge no more what ladies do,— No, nor how their lords may ride!"
Then the good steed's rein she took, and his neck did kiss and stroke:— Toll slowly. Soft he neighed to answer her, and then followed up the stair, For the love of her sweet look.
Oh, and steeply, steeply wound up the narrow stair around,— Toll slowly. Oh, and closely, closely speeding, step by step beside her treading,— Did he follow, meek as hound.
On the east tower, high'st of all,—there, where never a hoof did fall,— Toll slowly. Out they swept, a vision steady,—noble steed and lovely lady, Calm as if in bower or stall.
Down she knelt at her lord's knee, and she looked up silently,— Toll slowly. And he kissed her twice and thrice, for that look within her eyes Which he could not bear to see.
Quoth he, "Get thee from this strife,—and the sweet saints bless thy life!"— Toll slowly. "In this hour, I stand in need of my noble red-roan steed— But no more of my noble wife."
Quoth she, "Meekly have I done all thy biddings under sun:"— Toll slowly. "But by all my womanhood, which is proved so true and good, I will never do this one.
"Now by womanhood's degree, and by wifehood's verity,"— Toll slowly. "In this hour if thou hast need of thy noble red-roan steed, Thou hast also need of me.
"By this golden ring ye see on this lifted hand pardiè,"— Toll slowly. "If, this hour, on castle-wall, can be room for steed from stall, Shall be also room for
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me.
"So the sweet saints with me be" (did she utter solemnly),— Toll slowly. "If a man, this eventide, on this castle wall will ride, He shall ride the same with me."
Oh, he sprang up in the selle, and he laughed out bitter-well,— Toll slowly. "Wouldst thou ride among the leaves, as we used on other eves, To hear chime a vesper-bell?"
She clang closer to his knee—"Ay, beneath the cypress-tree!"— Toll slowly. "Mock me not, for otherwhere than along the greenwood fair, Have I ridden fast with thee!
"Fast I rode with new-made vows, from my angry kinsman's house!" Toll slowly. "What! and would you men should reck that I dared more for love's sake As a bride than as a spouse?
"What, and would you it should fall, as a proverb, before all,"— Toll slowly. "That a bride may keep your side while through castle-gate you ride, Yet eschew the castle-wall?"
Ho! the breach yawns into ruin, and roars up against her suing,— Toll slowly. With the inarticulate din, and the dreadful falling in— Shrieks of doing and undoing!
Twice he wrung her hands in twain, but the small hands closed again,— Toll slowly. Back he reined the steed—back, back! but she trailed along his track With a frantic clasp and strain.
Evermore the foemen pour through the crash of window and door,— Toll slowly. And the shouts of Leigh and Leigh, and the shrieks of "kill!" and "flee!" Strike up clear amid the roar.
Thrice he wrung her hands in twain,—but they closed and clung again,— Toll slowly. Wild she clung, as one, withstood, clasps a Christ upon the rood, In a spasm of deathly pain.
She clung wild and she clung mute,—with her shuddering lips half-shut,— Toll slowly. Her head fallen as half in swound,—hair and knee swept on the ground,— She clung wild to stirrup and foot.
Back he reined his steed back-thrown on the slippery coping-stone,— Toll slowly. Back the iron hoofs did grind on the battlement behind, Whence a hundred feet went down.
And his heel did press and goad on the quivering flank bestrode, Toll slowly. "Friends, and brothers! save my wife!—Pardon, sweet, in change for life,— But I ride alone to God."
Straight as if the Holy name had upbreathed her like a flame,— Toll slowly. She upsprang, she rose upright,—in his selle she sate in sight, By her love she overcame.
And her head was on his breast, where she smiled as one at rest,— Toll slowly. "Ring," she cried, "O vesper-bell, in the beechwood's old chapelle! But the passing-bell rings best."
They have caught out at the rein, which Sir Guy threw loose—in vain,— Toll slowly. For the horse in stark despair, with his front hoofs poised in air, On the last verge rears amain.
Now he hangs, the rocks between—and his nostrils curdle in,— Toll slowly. Now he shivers head and hoof—and the flakes of foam fall off; And his face grows fierce and thin!
And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go,— Toll slowly. And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony Of the headlong death below,——
And, "Ring, ring, thou passing-bell," still she cried, "i' the old chapelle!"— Toll slowly. Then back-toppling, crashing back,—a dead weight flung out to wrack, Horse and riders overfell.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.