In the Saddle: A Collection of Poems on Horseback-Riding

LÜTZOW'S WILD CHASE

What is it that beams in the bright sunshine,And echoes yet nearer and nearer?And see! how it spreads in a long dark line,And hark! how its horns in the distance combineTo impress with affright the hearer!And ask ye what means the daring race?This is – Lützow's wild and desperate chase!See, they leave the dark wood in silence all,And from hill to hill are seen flying;In ambush they'll lie till the deep nightfall,Then ye'll hear the hurrah! and the rifle ball!And the French will be falling and dying!And ask ye what means their daring race?This is – Lützow's wild and desperate chase!Where the vine-boughs twine, the Rhine waves roar,And the foe thinks its waters shall hide him;But see, they fearless approach the shore,And they leap in the stream, and swim proudly o'er,And stand on the bank beside him!And ask ye what means the daring race?This is – Lützow's wild and desperate chase!Why roars in the valley the raging fight,Where swords clash red and gory?O fierce is the strife of that deadly fight,For the spark of young Freedom is newly alight,And it breaks into flames of glory!And ask ye what means the daring race?This is – Lützow's wild and desperate chase!See yon warrior who lies on a gory spot,From life compelled to sever;Yet he never is heard to lament his lot,And his soul at its parting shall tremble not,Since his country is saved forever!And if ye will ask at the end of his race,Still 'tis – Lützow's wild and desperate chase!The wild chase, and the German chaseAgainst tyranny and oppression!Therefore weep not, loved friends, at this last embrace,For freedom has dawned on our loved birth-place,And our deaths shall insure its possession!And 'twill ever be said from race to race,This was – Lützow's wild and desperate chase!Theodor Körner.

THE ERL-KING

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHEO, who rides by night thro' the woodland so wild?It is the fond father embracing his child;And close the boy nestles within his loved arm,To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm."O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says;"My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze?" —"O, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud" —"No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud."(THE ERL-KING SPEAKS.)"O come and go with me, thou loveliest child;By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled;My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy,And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy.""O father, my father, and did you not hearThe Erl-King whisper so loud in my ear?" —"Be still, my heart's darling – my child, be at ease;It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees."ERL-KING"O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy?My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy;She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and thro' wild,And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child.""O father, my father, and saw you not plain,The Erl-King's pale daughter glide past thro' the rain?" —"O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon;It was the gray willow that danced to the moon."ERL-KING"O come and go with me, no longer delay,Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away." —"O father! O father! now, now keep your hold,The Erl-King has seized me, his grasp is so cold!" —Sore trembled the father; he spurred thro' 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!Walter Scott.

MAZEPPA'S RIDE

"'Bring forth the horse!' – the horse was brought,In truth, he was a noble steed,A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,Who looked as though the speed of thoughtWere in his limbs: but he was wild,Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,With spur and bridle undefiled, —'Twas but a day he had been caught;And snorting, with erected mane,And struggling fiercely, but in vain,In the full foam of wrath and dread,To me the desert-born was led;They bound me on, that menial throng,Upon his back with many a thong;Then loosed him with a sudden lash, —Away! – away! – and on we dash!Torrents less rapid and less rash.Away! – away! My breath was gone, —I saw not where he hurried on:'Twas scarcely yet the break of day,And on he foamed, – away! – away! —The last of human sounds which rose,As I was darted from my foes,Was the wild shout of savage laughter,Which on the wind came roaring afterA moment from that rabble rout:With sudden wrath I wrenched my head,And snapped the cord, which to the maneHad bound my neck in lieu of rein,And writhing half my form about,Howled back my curse; but midst the tread,The thunder of my courser's speed,Perchance they did not hear nor heed:It vexes me, – for I would fainHave paid their insult back again.I paid it well in after days:There is not of that castle gate,Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight,Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left;Nor of its fields a blade of grass,Save what grows on a ridge of wall,Where stood the hearthstone of the hall;And many a time ye there might pass,Nor dream that e'er that fortress was:I saw its turrets in a blaze,Their crackling battlements all cleft,And the hot lead pour down like rainFrom off the scorched and blackening roof,Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof.They little thought that day of pain,When launched, as on the lightning's flash,They bade me to destruction dash,That one day I should come again,With twice five thousand horse, to thankThe count for his uncourteous ride.They played me then a bitter prank,When, with the wild horse for my guide,They bound me to his foaming flank:At length I played them one as frank, —For time at last sets all things even, —And if we do but watch the hour,There never yet was human powerWhich could evade, if unforgiven,The patient search and vigil longOf him who treasures up a wrong."Away, away, my steed and I,Upon the pinions of the wind,All human dwellings left behind;We sped like meteors through the sky,When with its crackling sound the nightIs checkered with the northern light:Town, – village, – none were on our track,But a wild plain of far extent,And bounded by a forest black:And, save the scarce-seen battlementOn distant heights of some strong hold,Against the Tartars built of old,No trace of man. The year beforeA Turkish army had marched o'er;And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod,The verdure flies the bloody sod:The sky was dull, and dim, and gray,And a low breeze crept moaning by, —I could have answered with a sigh, —But fast we fled, away, away, —And I could neither sigh nor pray;And my cold sweat-drops fell like rainUpon the courser's bristling mane:But, snorting still with rage and fear,He flew upon his far career:At times I almost thought, indeed,He must have slackened in his speed:But no, – my bound and slender frameWas nothing to his angry might,And merely like a spur became:Each motion which I made to freeMy swoln limbs from their agonyIncreased his fury and affright:I tried my voice, – 'twas faint and low,But yet he swerved as from a blow;And, starting to each accent, sprangAs from a sudden trumpet's clang:Meantime my chords were wet with gore,Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er;And in my tongue the thirst becameA something fierier far than flame."We neared the wild wood, – 'twas so wide,I saw no bounds on either side;'Twas studded with old sturdy trees,That bent not to the roughest breezeWhich howls down from Siberia's waste,And strips the forest in its haste, —But these were few, and far between,Set thick with shrubs more young and green,Luxuriant with their annual leaves,Ere strown by those autumnal evesThat nip the forest's foliage dead,Discolored with a lifeless red,Which stands thereon like stiffened goreUpon the slain when battle's o'er,And some long winter's night hath shedIts frost o'er every tombless head,So cold and stark the raven's beakMay peck unpierced each frozen cheek:'Twas a wild waste of underwood,And here and there a chestnut stood,The strong oak, and the hardy pine;But far apart, – and well it were,Or else a different lot were mine, —The boughs gave way, and did not tearMy limbs; and I found strength to bearMy wounds, already scarred with cold, —My bonds forbade to loose my hold.We rustled through the leaves like wind,Left shrubs and trees and wolves behind;By night I heard them on the track,Their troop came hard upon our back,With their long gallop, which can tireThe hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire:Where'er we flew they followed on,Nor left us with the morning sun;Behind I saw them, scarce a rood,At daybreak winding through the wood,And through the night had heard their feetTheir stealing, rustling step repeat.O, how I wished for spear or sword,At least to die amidst the horde,And perish – if it must be so —At bay, destroying many a foe.When first my courser's race begun,I wished the goal already won;But now I doubted strength and speed.Vain doubt! his swift and savage breedHad nerved him like the mountain-roe;Nor faster falls the blinding snowWhich whelms the peasant near the doorWhose threshold he shall cross no more,Bewildered with the dazzling blast,Than through the forest-paths he past, —Untired, untamed, and worse than wild;All furious as a favored childBalked of its wish; or, fiercer still,A woman piqued, who has her will."The wood was past; 'twas more than noon;But chill the air, although in June;Or it might be my veins ran cold, —Prolonged endurance tames the bold:And I was then not what I seem,But headlong as a wintry stream,And wore my feelings out beforeI well could count their causes o'er:And what with fury, fear, and wrath,The tortures which beset my path,Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress,Thus bound in nature's nakedness;Sprung from a race whose rising bloodWhen stirred beyond its calmer mood,And trodden hard upon, is likeThe rattlesnake's, in act to strike,What marvel if this worn-out trunkBeneath its woes a moment sunk?The earth gave way, the skies rolled round,I seemed to sink upon the ground;But erred, for I was fastly bound.My heart turned sick, my brain grew sore,And throbbed awhile, then beat no more:The skies spun like a mighty wheel;I saw the trees like drunkards reel,And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes,Which saw no farther: he who diesCan die no more than then I died.O'ertortured by that ghastly ride,I felt the blackness come and go,And strove to wake; but could not makeMy senses climb up from below:I felt as on a plank at sea,When all the waves that dash o'er thee,At the same time upheave and whelm,And hurl thee towards a desert realm.My undulating life was asThe fancied lights that flitting passOur shut eyes in deep midnight, whenFever begins upon the brain;But soon it passed, with little pain,But a confusion worse than such:I own that I should deem it much,Dying, to feel the same again;And yet I do suppose we mustFeel far more ere we turn to dust:No matter; I have bared my browFull in Death's face – before – and now."My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold,And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulseLife reassumed its lingering hold,And throb by throb; till grown a pangWhich for a moment would convulse,My blood reflowed, though thick and chill;My ear with uncouth noises rang,My heart began once more to thrill;My sight returned, though dim, alas!And thickened, as it were, with glass.Methought the dash of waves was nigh;There was a gleam too of the sky,Studded with stars; – it is no dream:The wild horse swims the wilder stream!The bright broad river's gushing tideSweeps, winding onward, far and wide,And we are half-way struggling o'erTo yon unknown and silent shore.The waters broke my hollow trance.And with a temporary strengthMy stiffened limbs were rebaptized,My courser's broad breast proudly braves,And dashes off the ascending waves,And onward we advance!We reach the slippery shore at length,A haven I but little prized,For all behind was dark and drear,And all before was night and fear.How many hours of night or dayIn those suspended pangs I lay,I could not tell; I scarcely knewIf this were human breath I drew."With glossy skin, and dripping mane,And reeling limbs, and reeking flank,The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strainUp the repelling bank.We gain the top: a boundless plainSpreads through the shadow of the night,And onward, onward, onward, seemsLike precipices in our dreams,To stretch beyond the sight;And here and there a speck of white,Or scattered spot of dusky green,In masses broke into the light,As rose the moon upon my right.But naught distinctly seenIn the dim waste, would indicateThe omen of a cottage gate;No twinkling taper from afarStood like a hospitable star;Not even an ignis-fatuus roseTo make him merry with my woes:That very cheat had cheered me then!Although detected, welcome still,Reminding me, through every ill,Of the abodes of men."Onward we went, – but slack and slow;His savage force at length o'erspent,The drooping courser, faint and low,All feebly foaming went.A sickly infant had had powerTo guide him forward in that hour;But useless all to me.His new-born tameness naught availed,My limbs were bound; my force had failed,Perchance, had they been free.With feeble effort still I triedTo rend the bonds so starkly tied, —But still it was in vain;My limbs were only wrung the more,And soon the idle strife gave o'er,Which but prolonged their pain:The dizzy race seemed almost done,Although no goal was nearly won:Some streaks announced the coming sun. —How slow, alas! he came!Methought that mist of dawning grayWould never dapple into day;How heavily it rolled away, —Before the eastern flameRose crimson, and deposed the stars,And called the radiance from their cars,And filled the earth, from his deep throne,With lonely lustre, all his own."Up rose the sun; the mists were curledBack from the solitary worldWhich lay around – behind – before:What booted it to traverse o'erPlain, forest, river? Man nor brute,Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot,Lay in the wild luxuriant soil;No sign of travel, – none of toil;The very air was mute;And not an insect's shrill small horn,Nor matin bird's new voice was borneFrom herb nor thicket. Many a werst,Panting as if his heart would burst,The weary brute still staggered on;And still we were – or seemed – alone:At length, while reeling on our way,Methought I heard a courser neigh,From out yon tuft of blackening firs.Is it the wind those branches stirs?No, no! from out the forest pranceA trampling troop; I see them come!In one vast squadron they advance!I strove to cry, – my lips were dumb.The steeds rush on in plunging pride;But where are they the reins to guide?A thousand horse, – and none to ride!With flowing tail, and flying main,Wide nostrils, – never stretched by pain, —Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,And feet that iron never shod,And flanks unscarred by spur or rod,A thousand horse, the wild, the free,Like waves that follow o'er the sea,Came thickly thundering on,As if our faint approach to meet;The sight renerved my courser's feet,A moment staggering, feebly fleet,A moment, with a faint low neigh,He answered, and then fell;With gasps and glazing eyes he lay,And reeking limbs immovable,His first and last career is done!On came the troop, – they saw him stoop,They saw me strangely bound alongHis back with many a bloody thong:They stop – they start – they snuff the air,Gallop a moment here and there,Approach, retire, wheel round and round,Then plunging back with sudden bound,Headed by one black mighty steed,Who seemed the patriarch of his breed,Without a single speck or hairOf white upon his shaggy hide;They snort – they foam – neigh – swerve aside,And backward to the forest fly,By instinct from a human eye, —They left me there, to my despair,Linked to the dead and stiffening wretch,Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch,Relieved from that unwonted weight,From whence I could not extricateNor him nor me, – and there we lay,The dying on the dead!Byron.

THE GIAOUR'S RIDE

Who thundering comes on blackest steed,With slackened bit and hoof of speed?Beneath the clattering iron's soundThe caverned echoes wake aroundIn lash for lash, and bound for bound;The foam that streaks the courser's sideSeems gathered from the ocean-tide:Though weary waves are sunk to rest,There's none within his rider's breast;And though to-morrow's tempest lower,'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!I know thee not, I loathe thy race,But in thy lineaments I traceWhat time shall strengthen, not efface:Though young and pale, that sallow frontIs scathed by fiery passion's brunt;Though bent on earth thine evil eye,As meteor-like thou glidest by,Right well I view and deem thee oneWhom Othman's sons should slay or shun.On – on he hastened, and he drewMy gaze of wonder as he flew:Though like a demon of the nightHe passed, and vanished from my sight,His aspect and his air impressedA troubled memory on my breast,And long upon my startled earRung his dark courser's hoofs of fear.He spurs his steed; he nears the steep,That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep;He winds around; he hurries by;The rock relieves him from mine eye;For well I ween unwelcome heWhose glance is fixed on those that flee;And not a star but shines too brightOn him who takes such timeless flight.He wound along; but ere he passedOne glance he snatched, as if his last,A moment checked his wheeling steed,A moment breathed him from his speed,A moment on his stirrup stood —Why looks he o'er the olive wood?The crescent glimmers on the hill,The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still:Though too remote for sound to wakeIn echoes of the far tophaike,The flashes of each joyous pealAre seen to prove the Moslem's zeal,To-night, set Rhamazani's sun;To-night, the Bairam feast's begun;To-night – but who and what art thouOf foreign garb and fearful brow?And what are these to thine, or thee,That thou should'st either pause or flee?He stood – some dread was on his face,Soon Hatred settled in its place:It rose not with the reddening flushOf transient Anger's hasty blush,But pale as marble o'er the tomb,Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.His brow was bent, his eye was glazed;He raised his arm, and fiercely raised,And sternly shook his hand on high,As doubting to return or fly:Impatient of his flight delayed,Here loud his raven charger neighed —Down glanced that hand, and grasped his blade;That sound had burst his waking dream,As Slumber starts at owlet's scream.The spur hath lanced his courser's sides;Away, away, for life he rides:Swift as the hurled on high jerreedSprings to the touch his startled steed;The rock is doubled, and the shoreShakes with the clattering tramp no more;The crag is won, no more is seenHis Christian crest and haughty mien.'Twas but an instant he restrainedThat fiery barb so sternly reined;'Twas but a moment that he stood,Then sped as if by death pursued:But in that instant o'er his soulWinters of Memory seemed to roll,And gather in that drop of timeA life of pain, an age of crime.O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears,Such moment pours the grief of years:What felt he then, at once opprestBy all that most distracts the breast?That pause, which pondered o'er his fate,Oh, who its dreary length shall date!Though in Time's record nearly nought,It was Eternity to Thought!For infinite as boundless spaceThe thought that Conscience must embrace,Which in itself can comprehendWoe without name, or hope, or end.The hour is past, the Giaour is gone;And did he fly or fall alone?Woe to that hour he came or went!The curse of Hassan's sin was sentTo turn a palace to a tomb;He came, he went, like the Simoom,That harbinger of fate and gloom,Beneath whose widely-wasting breathThe very cypress droops to death —Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled,The only constant mourner o'er the dead!Byron.

THE NORSEMAN'S RIDE

The frosty fires of Northern starlightGleamed on the glittering snow,And through the forest's frozen branchesThe shrieking winds did blow;A floor of blue, translucent marbleKept ocean's pulses still,When, in the depth of dreary midnight,Opened the burial hill.Then while a low and creeping shudderThrilled upward through the ground,The Norseman came, as armed for battle,In silence from his mound:He, who was mourned in solemn sorrowBy many a swordsman bold,And harps that wailed along the ocean,Struck by the Skalds of old.Sudden, a swift and silver shadowRushed up from out the gloom, —A horse that stamped with hoof impatient,Yet noiseless, on the tomb."Ha, Surtur! let me hear thy tramping,Thou noblest Northern steed,Whose neigh along the stormy headlandsBade the bold Viking heed!"He mounted: like a north-light streakingThe sky with flaming bars,They, on the winds so wildly shrieking,Shot up before the stars."Is this thy mane, my fearless Surtur,That streams against my breast?Is this thy neck, that curve of moonlight,Which Helva's hand caressed?"No misty breathing strains thy nostril,Thine eye shines blue and cold,Yet, mounting up our airy pathway,I see thy hoofs of gold!Not lighter o'er the springing rainbowWalhalla's gods repair,Than we, in sweeping journey overThe bending bridge of air."Far, far around, star-gleams are sparklingAmid the twilight space;And Earth, that lay so cold and darkling,Has veiled her dusky face.Are those the Nornes that beckon onwardTo seats at Odin's board,Where nightly by the hands of heroesThe foaming mead is poured?"'Tis Skuld! her star-eye speaks the gloryThat waits the warrior's soul,When on its hinge of music opensThe gateway of the Pole, —When Odin's warder leads the heroTo banquets never done,And Freya's eyes outshine in summerThe ever-risen sun."On! on! the Northern lights are streamingIn brightness like the morn,And pealing far amid the vastness,I hear the Gjallarhorn:The heart of starry space is throbbingWith songs of minstrels old,And now, on high Walhalla's portal,Gleam Surtur's hoofs of gold!"Bayard Taylor.

BOOT AND SADDLE

"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!Rescue my Castle, before the hot dayBrightens to blue from its silvery gray,(Cho.) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;Many's the friend there will listen and pray"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay,(Cho.) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array:Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,(Cho.) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!I've better counsellors; what counsel they?(Cho.) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"Robert Browning.

THE CAVALIER'S ESCAPE

Trample! trample! went the roan,Trap! trap! went the gray;But pad! pad! pad! like a thing that was mad,My chestnut broke away. —It was just five miles from Salisbury town,And but one hour to day.Thud! thud! came on the heavy roan,Rap! rap! the mettled gray;But my chestnut mare was of blood so rare,That she showed them all the way.Spur on! spur on! – I doffed my hat,And wished them all good day.They splashed through miry rut and pool, —Splintered through fence and rail;But chestnut Kate switched over the gate, —I saw them droop and tail.To Salisbury town – but a mile of down,Once over this brook and rail.Trap! trap! I heard their echoing hoofsPast the walls of mossy stone;The roan flew on at a staggering pace,But blood is better than bone.I patted old Kate, and gave her the spur,For I knew it was all my own.But trample! trample! came their steeds,And I saw their wolfs' eyes burn;I felt like a royal hart at bay,And made me ready to turn.I looked where highest grew the may,And deepest arched the fern.I flew at the first knave's sallow throat;One blow, and he was down.The second rogue fired twice, and missed;I sliced the villain's crown.Clove through the rest, and flogged brave Kate,Fast, fast to Salisbury town!Pad! pad! they came on the level sward,Thud! thud! upon the sand;With a gleam of swords, and a burning match,And a shaking of flag and hand:But one long bound, and I passed the gate,Safe from the canting band.Walter Thornbury.

KING JAMES'S RIDE

"Stand, Bayard, stand!" – the steed obeyed,With arching neck and bending head,And glancing eye and quivering earAs if he loved his lord to hear.No foot Fitz-James in stirrup staid,No grasp upon the saddle laid,But wreathed his left hand in the mane,And lightly bounded from the plain,Turned on the horse his armed heel,And stirred his courage with the steel.Bounded the fiery steed in air,The rider sate erect and fair,Then like a bolt from steel crossbowForth launched, along the plain they go.They dashed that rapid torrent through,And up Carhonie's hill they flew;Still at the gallop pricked the Knight,His merry-men followed as they might.Along thy banks, swift Teith! they ride,And in the race they mocked thy tide;Torry and Lendrick now are past,And Deanstown lies behind them cast;They rise, the bannered towers of Doune,They sink in distant woodland soon;Blair-Drummond sees the hoof strike fire,They sweep like breeze through Ochtertyre;They mark just glance and disappearThe lofty brow of ancient Kier;They bathe their courser's sweltering sides,Dark Forth! amid thy sluggish tides,And on the opposing shore take ground,With plash, with scramble, and with bound.Right-hand they leave thy cliffs, Craig-Forth!And soon the bulwark of the North,Grey Stirling, with her towers and town,Upon their fleet career looked down.Walter Scott.