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

KIT CARSON'S RIDE

We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels,Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride;And the heavens of blue and the harvest of brownAnd beautiful clover were welded as one,To the right and the left, in the light of the sun."Forty full miles if a foot to ride,Forty full miles if a foot, and the devilsOf red Camanches are hot on the trackWhen once they strike it. Let the sun go downSoon, very soon," muttered bearded old RevelsAs he peered at the sun, lying low on his back,Holding fast to his lasso. Then he jerked at his steedAnd he sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around,And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground;Then again to his feet, and to me, to my bride,While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud,His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud,And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed, —"Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed,And speed you if ever for life you would speed,And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride!For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire,And feet of wild horses hard flying beforeI hear like a sea breaking high on the shore,While the buffalo come like a surge of the sea,Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us threeAs a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire."We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein,Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again,And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheers,Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold,Cast aside the catenas red-spangled with gold,And gold mounted Colt's, the companions of years,Cast the silken serapes to the wind in a breath,And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse, —As bare as when born, as when new from the handOf God, – without word, or one word of command.Turned head to the Brazos in a red race with death,Turned head to the Brazos with a breath in the hairBlowing hot from a king leaving death in his course;Turned head to the Brazos with a sound in the airLike the rush of an army, and a flash in the eyeOf a red wall of fire reaching up to the sky,Stretching fierce in pursuit of a black rolling seaRushing fast upon us, as the wind sweeping freeAnd afar from the desert blew hollow and hoarse.Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall,Not a kiss from my bride, not a look nor low callOf love-note or courage; but on o'er the plainSo steady and still, leaning low to the mane,With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein,Rode we on, rode we three, rode we nose and gray nose,Reaching long, breathing loud, as a creviced wind blows:Yet we broke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer,There was work to be done, there was death in the air,And the chance was as one to a thousand for all.Gray nose to gray nose, and each steady mustangStretched neck and stretched nerve till the arid earth rang,And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neckFlew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck.Twenty miles!.. thirty miles!.. a dim distant speck …Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos in sight,And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight.I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right —But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulderAnd saw his horse stagger; I saw his head droopingHard down on his breast, and his naked breast stoopingLow down to the mane, as so swifter and bolderRan reaching out for us the red-footed fire.To right and to left the black buffalo came,A terrible surf on a red sea of flameRushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher.And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull,The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane fullOf smoke and of dust, and it shook with desireOf battle, with rage and with bellowings loudAnd unearthly, and up through its lowering cloudCame the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire,While his keen crooked horns, through the storm of his mane,Like black lances lifted and lifted again;And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through,And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two.I looked to my left then, – and nose, neck, and shoulderSank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs;And up through the black blowing veil of her hairDid beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes,With a longing and love, yet a look of despairAnd of pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her,And flames reaching far for her glorious hair.Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fellTo and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's swellDid subside and recede, and the nerves fall as dead.Then she saw sturdy Paché still lorded his head,With a look of delight; for nor courage nor bribe,Nor naught but my bride, could have brought him to me.For he was her father's, and at South SantafeeHad once won a whole herd, sweeping everything downIn a race where the world came to run for the crown.And so when I won the true heart of my bride, —My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child,And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe, —She brought me this steed to the border the nightShe met Revels and me in her perilous flightFrom the lodge of the chief to the North Brazos side;And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled,As if jesting, that I, and I only, should rideThe fleet-footed Paché, so if kin should pursueI should surely escape without other adoThan to ride, without blood, to the North Brazos side,And await her, – and wait till the next hollow moonHung her horn in the palms, when surely and soonAnd swift she would join me, and all would be wellWithout bloodshed or word. And now as she fellFrom the front, and went down in the ocean of fire,The last that I saw was a look of delightThat I should escape – a love – a desire —Yet never a word, not one look of appeal,Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heelOne instant for her in my terrible flight.Then the rushing of fire around me and under,And the howling of beasts and a sound as of thunder, —Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over,As the passionate flame reached around them, and wove herRed hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died, —Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan,As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone …And into the Brazos … I rode all alone, —All alone, save only a horse long-limbed,And blind and bare and burnt to the skin.Then just as the terrible sea came inAnd tumbled its thousands hot into the tideTill the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmedIn eddies, we struck on the opposite side.Joaquin Miller.

TAMING THE WILD HORSE

Last night he trampled with a thousand steedsThe trembling desert. Now, he stands alone —His speed hath baffled theirs. His fellows lurk,Behind, on heavy sands, with weary limbsThat cannot reach him. From the highest hill,He gazes o'er the wild whose plains he spurned,And his eye kindles, and his breast expands,With an upheaving consciousness of might.He stands an instant, then he breaks away,As revelling in his freedom. What if art,That strikes soul into marble, could but seizeThat agony of action, – could impressIts muscular fulness, with its winged haste,Upon the resisting rock, while wonder stares,And admiration worships? There, – away —As glorying in that mighty wilderness,And conscious of the gazing skies o'erhead,Quiver for flight, his sleek and slender limbs,Elastic, springing into headlong force —While his smooth neck, curved loftily to arch,Dignifies flight, and to his speed impartsThe majesty, not else its attribute.And, circling, now he sweeps, the flowery plain,As if 'twere his – imperious, gathering upHis limbs, unwearied by their sportive play,Until he stands, an idol of the sight.He stands and trembles! The warm life is goneThat gave him action. Wherefore is it thus?His eye hath lost its lustre, though it stillSends forth a glance of consciousness and care,To a deep agony of acuteness wrought,And straining at a point – a narrow point —That rises, but a speck upon the vergeOf the horizon. Sure, the humblest life,Hath, in God's providence, some gracious guides,That warn it of its foe. The danger there,His instinct teaches, and with growing dread,No more solicitous of graceful flight,He bounds across the plain – he speeds away,Into the tameless wilderness afar,To 'scape his bondage. Yet, in vain his flight —Vain his fleet limbs, his desperate aim, his leapThrough the close thicket, through the festering swamp,And rushing waters. His proud neck must bendBeneath a halter, and the iron partsAnd tears his delicate mouth. The brave steed,Late bounding in his freedom's consciousness,The leader of the wild, unreached of all,Wears gaudy trappings, and becomes a slave.He bears a master on his shrinking back,He feels a rowel in his bleeding flanks,And his arched neck, beneath the biting thong,Burns, while he bounds away – all desperate —Across the desert, mad with the vain hopeTo shake his burden off. He writhes, he turnsOn his oppressor. He would rend the foe,Who subtle, with less strength, had taken him thus,At foul advantage – but he strives in vain.A sudden pang – a newer form of pain,Baffles, and bears him on – he feels his fate,And with a shriek of agony, which tells,Loudly, the terrors of his new estate,He makes the desert – his own desert – ringWith the wild clamors of his new born grief.One fruitless effort more – one desperate bound,For the old freedom of his natural life,And then he humbles to his cruel lot,Submits, and finds his conqueror in man!W. G. Simms.

CHIQUITA

Beautiful! Sir, you may say so. Thar isn't her match in the county.Is thar, old gal, – Chiquita, my darling, my beauty?Feel of that neck, sir, – thar's velvet! Whoa! Steady, – ah,will you, you vixen!Whoa! I say. Jack, trot her out; let the gentleman look at her paces.Morgan! – She ain't nothin' else, and I've got the papers to prove it.Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't buy her.Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of Tuolumne? —Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down in 'Frisco?Hedn't no savey – hed Briggs. Thar, Jack! that'll do, – quit that foolin'!Nothin' to what she kin do, when she's got her work cut out before her.Hosses is hosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is jockeys;And 'tain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows what a hoss has got in him.Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan's leaders?Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low water!Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his neveyStruck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water all round us;Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek just a bilin',Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river.I had the grey, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, Chiquita;And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of the cañon.Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and ChiquitaBuckled right down to her work, and afore I could yell to her rider,Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and me standing,And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat and a driftin' to thunder!Would ye b'lieve it? that night that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita,Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and dripping:Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness,Just as she swam the Fork, – that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita.That's what I call a hoss! and – What did you say! – Oh, the nevey?Drownded, I reckon, – leastways, he never kem back to deny it.Ye see the derned fool had no seat, – ye couldn't have made him a rider;And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses – well, hosses is hosses!Bret Harte.

BAY BILLY

'Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg, —Perhaps the day you reck,Our boys, the Twenty-Second Maine,Kept Early's men in check.Just where Wade Hampton boomed awayThe fight went neck and neck.All day the weaker wing we held,And held it with a will.Five several stubborn times we chargedThe battery on the hill,And five times beaten back, re-formed,And kept our column still.At last from out the centre fightSpurred up a General's Aid."That battery must silenced be!"He cried, as past he sped.Our Colonel simply touched his cap,And then, with measured tread,To lead the crouching line once moreThe grand old fellow came.No wounded man but raised his headAnd strove to gasp his name,And those who could not speak nor stir,"God blessed him" just the same.For he was all the world to us,That hero gray and grim.Right well he knew that fearful slopeWe'd climb with none but him,Though while his white head led the wayWe'd charge hell's portals in.This time we were not half-way up,When, midst the storm of shell,Our leader, with his sword upraised,Beneath our bayonets fell.And, as we bore him back, the foeSet up a joyous yell.Our hearts went with him. Back we swept,And when the bugle said"Up, charge, again!" no man was thereBut hung his dogged head."We've no one left to lead us now,"The sullen soldiers said.Just then before the laggard lineThe Colonel's horse we spied,Bay Billy with his trappings on,His nostrils swelling wide,As though still on his gallant backThe master sat astride.Right royally he took the placeThat was of old his wont,And with a neigh that seemed to say,Above the battle's brunt,"How can the Twenty-second chargeIf I am not in front?"Like statues rooted there we stood,And gazed a little space,Above that floating mane we missedThe dear familiar face,But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire,And it gave us heart of grace.No bugle-call could rouse us allAs that brave sight had done.Down all the battered line we feltA lightning impulse run.Up! up! the hill we followed Bill,And we captured every gun!And when upon the conquered heightDied out the battle's hum.Vainly mid living and the deadWe sought our leader dumb.It seemed as if a spectre steedTo win that day had come.And then the dusk and dew of nightFell softly o'er the plain,As though o'er man's dread work of deathThe angels wept again,And drew night's curtain gently roundA thousand beds of pain.All night the surgeons' torches went,The ghastly rows between. —All night with solemn step I pacedThe torn and bloody green.But who that fought in the big warSuch dread sights have not seen?At last the morning broke. The larkSang in the merry skiesAs if to e'en the sleepers thereIt bade awake, and rise!Though naught but that last trump of allCould ope their heavy eyes.And then once more with banners gay,Stretched out the long Brigade.Trimly upon the furrowed fieldThe troops stood on parade,And bravely mid the ranks were closedThe gaps the fight had made.Not half the Twenty-second's menWere in their place that morn,And Corporal Dick, who yester-noonStood six brave fellows on,Now touched my elbow in the ranks,For all between were gone.Ah! who forgets that dreary hourWhen, as with misty eyes,To call the old familiar rollThe solemn Sergeant tries, —One feels that thumping of the heartAs no prompt voice replies.And as in faltering tone and slowThe last few names were said,Across the field some missing horseToiled up with weary tread,It caught the Sergeant's eye, and quickBay Billy's name he read.Yes! there the old bay hero stood,All safe from battle's harms,And ere an order could be heard,Or the bugle's quick alarms,Down all the front, from end to end,The troops presented arms!Not all the shoulder-straps on earthCould still our mighty cheer;And ever from that famous day,When rang the roll-call clear,Bay Billy's name was read, and thenThe whole line answered, "Here!"Frank H. Gassaway.

WIDDERIN'S RACE

A horse amongst ten thousand! on the verge,The extremest verge, of equine life he stands;Yet mark his action, as those wild young coltsFreed from the stock-yard gallop whinnying up;See how he trots towards them, – nose in air,Tail arched, and his still sinewy legs out-thrownIn gallant grace before him! A brave beastAs ever spurned the moorland, ay, and more, —He bore me once, – such words but smite the truthI' the outer ring, while vivid memory wakes,Recalling now, the passion and the pain, —He bore me once from earthly Hell to Heaven!The sight of fine old Widderin (that's his name,Caught from a peak, the topmost rugged peakOf tall Mount Widderin, towering to the NorthMost like a steed's head, with full nostrils blown,And ears pricked up), – the sight of Widderin bringsThat day of days before me, whose strange hoursOf fear and anguish, ere the sunset, changedTo hours of such content and full-veined joyAs Heaven can give our mortal lives but once.Well, here's the story: While yon bush-fires sweepThe distant ranges, and the river's voicePipes a thin treble through the heart of drouth,While the red heaven like some hugh caldron's topSeems with the heat a-simmering, better farIn place of riding tilt 'gainst such a sun,Here in the safe veranda's flowery gloom,To play the dwarfish Homer to a song,Whereof myself am hero:Two decadesHave passed since that wild autumn-time when lastThe convict hordes from near Van Diemen, freedBy force or fraud, swept, like a blood-red fire,Inland from beach to mountain, bent on raidAnd rapine.*…*...*…*So, in late autumn, – 'twas a marvellous morn,With breezes from the calm snow-river borneThat touched the air, and stirred it into thrills,Mysterious and mesmeric, a bright mistLapping the landscape like a golden trance,Swathing the hill-tops with fantastic veils,And o'er the moorland-ocean quivering lightAs gossamer threads drawn down the forest aislesAt dewy dawning, – on this marvellous morn,I, with four comrades, in this selfsame spot,Watched the fair scene, and drank the spicy airs,That held a subtler spirit than our wine,And talked and laughed, and mused in idleness, —Weaving vague fancies, as our pipe-wreaths curledFantastic in the sunlight! I, with headThrown back, and cushioned snugly, and with eyesIntent on one grotesque and curious cloud,Puffed upward, that now seemed to take the shapeOf a Dutch tulip, now a Turk's face toppedBy folds on folds of turban limitless, —Heard suddenly, just as the clock chimed one,To melt in musical echoes up the hills,Quick footsteps on the gravelled path without, —Steps of the couriers of calamity, —So my heart told me, – ere with blanched regards,Two stalwart herdsmen on our threshold paused,Panting, with lips that writhed, and awful eyes; —A breath's space in each other's eyes we glared,Then, swift as interchange of lightning thrustsIn deadly combat, question and replyClashed sharply, "What! the Rangers?" "Ay, by Heaven!And loosed in force, – the hell-hounds!" "Whither bound?"I stammered, hoarsely. "Bound," the elder said,"Southward! – four stations had they sacked and burnt,And now, drunk, furious" – But I stopped to hearNo more: with booming thunder in mine ears,And blood-flushed eyes, I rushed to Widderin's side,Drew tight the girths, upgathered curb and rein,And sprang to horse ere yet our laggard friends —Now trooping from the green veranda's shade —Could dream of action!Love had winged my will,For to the southward fair Garoopna heldMy all of hope, life, passion; she whose hair(Its tiniest strand of waving, witch-like gold)Had caught my heart, entwined, and bound it fast,As 'twere some sweet enchantment's heavenly net!I only gave a hand-wave in farewell,Shot by, and o'er the endless moorland swept(Endless it seemed, as those weird, measureless plains,Which, in some nightmare vision, stretch and stretchTowards infinity!) like some lone shipO'er wastes of sailless waters: now, a pine,The beacon pine gigantic, whose grim crownSignals the far land-mariner from outGaunt boulders of the gray-backed Organ hill,Rose on my sight, a mist-like, wavering orb,The while, still onward, onward, onward still,With motion winged, elastic, equable,Brave Widderin cleaved the air-tides, tossed asideThe winds as waves, their swift, invisible breastsHissing with foam-like noise when pressed and piercedBy that keen head and fiery-crested form!The lonely shepherd guardian on the plains,Watching his sheep through languid, half-shut eyes,Looked up, and marvelled, as we passed him by,Thinking, perchance, it was a glorious thing,So dressed, so booted, so caparisoned,To ride such bright blood-coursers unto death!Two sun-blacked natives, slumbering in the grass,Just rose betimes to 'scape the trampling hoofs,And hurled hot curses at me as I sped;While here and there the timid kangarooBlundered athwart the mole-hills, and in puffsOf steamy dust-cloud vanished like a mote!Onward, still onward, onward, onward still!And lo! thank Heaven, the mighty Organ hill,That seemed a dim blue cloudlet at the start,Hangs in aerial, fluted cliffs aloft, —And still as through the long, low glacis borne,Beneath the gorge borne ever at wild speed,I saw the mateless mountain eagle wheelBeyond the stark height's topmost pinnacle;I heard his shriek of rage and ravin dieDeep down the desolate dells, as far behindI left the gorge, and far before me sweptAnother plain, tree-bordered now, and boundBy the clear river gurgling o'er its bed.By this, my panting, but unconquered steedHad thrown his small head backward, and his breathThrough the red nostrils burst in labored sighs;I bent above his outstretched neck, I threwMy quivering arms about him, murmuring low,"Good horse! brave heart! a little longer bearThe strain, the travail; and thenceforth for theeFree pastures all thy days, till death shall come!Ah, many and many a time, my noble bay,Her lily hand hath wandered through thy mane,Patted thy rainbow neck, and brought thee earsOf daintiest corn from out the farmhouse loft, —Help, help to save her now!"I'll vow the bruteHeard me, and comprehended what he heard!He shook his proud crest madly, and his eyeTurned for a moment sideways, flashed in mineA lightning gleam, whose fiery language said,"I know my lineage, will not shame my sire, —My sire, who rushed triumphant 'twixt the flags,And frenzied thousands, when on Epsom downsArcturus won the Derby! – no, nor shameMy granddam, whose clean body, half enwroughtOf air, half fire, through swirls of desert sandBore Sheik Abdallah headlong on his prey!"At last came forest shadows, and the roadWinding through bush and bracken, and at lastThe hoarse stream rumbling o'er its quartz-sown crags."No, no! stanch Widderin! pause not now to drink;An hour hence, and thy dainty nose shall dipIn richest wine, poured jubilantly forthTo quench thy thirst, my Beauty! but press on,Nor heed these sparkling waters." God! my brain'sOn fire once more! an instant tells me all;All! life or death, – salvation or despair!For yonder, o'er the wild grass-matted slopeThe house stands, or it stood but yesterday.A Titan cry of inarticulate joyI raised, as, calm and peaceful in the sun,Shone the fair cottage, and the garden-close,Wherein, white-robed, unconscious, sat my LoveLilting a low song to the birds and flowers.She heard the hoof-strokes, saw me, started up,And with her blue eyes wider than their wont,And rosy lips half tremulous, rushed to meetAnd greet me swiftly. "Up, dear Love!" I cried,"The Convicts, the Bush-rangers! let us fly!"Ah, then and there you should have seen her, friend,My noble, beauteous Helen! not a tear,Nor sob, and scarce a transient pulse-quiver,As, clasping hand in hand, her fairy footLit like a small bird on my horseman's boot,And up into the saddle, lithe and light,Vaulting she perched, her bright curls round my face!We crossed the river, and, dismounting, ledO'er the steep slope of blended rock and turfThe wearied horse, and there behind a TorOf castellated bluestone, paused to sweepWith young keen eyes the broad plain stretched afar,Serene and autumn-tinted at our feet:"Either," said I, "these devils have gone east,To meet with bloodhound Desborough in his rageBetween the granite passes of Luxorme,Or else – dear Christ! my Helen, low! stoop low!"(These words were hissed in horror, for just then,'Twixt the deep hollows of the river-vale,The miscreants, with mixed shouts and curses, pouredDown through the flinty gorge tumultuously,Seeming, we thought, in one fierce throng to chargeOur hiding-place.) I seized my Widderin's head,Blindfolding him, for with a single neighOur fate were sealed o' the instant! As they rode,Those wild, foul-languaged demons by our lair,Scarce twelve yards off, my troubled steed shook wideHis streaming mane, stamped on the earth, and pawedSo loudly, that the sweat of agony rolledDown my cold forehead; at which point I feltMy arm clutched, and a voice I did not knowDropped the low murmur from pale, shuddering lips,"O God! if in those brutal hands I fall,Living, look not into your mother's faceOr any woman's more!"What time had passedAbove our bowed heads, we pent, pinioned thereBy awe and nameless horror, who shall tell?Minutes, perchance, by mortal measurement,Eternity by heart-throbs! – when at lengthWe turned, and eyes of mutual wonder raised,We gazed on alien faces, haggard, worn,And strange of feature as the faces bornIn fever and delirium! Were we saved?We scarce could comprehend it, till from outThe neighboring oak-wood rode our friends at speed,With clang of steel, and eyebrows bent in wrath.But, warned betimes, the wily ruffians fledFar up the forest-coverts, and beyondThe dazzling snow-line of the distant hills,Their yells of fiendish laughter pealing faintAnd fainter from the cloudland, and the mistThat closed about them like an ash-gray shroud:Yet were these wretches marked for imminent death:The next keen sunrise pierced the savage gorge,To which we tracked them, where, mere beasts at bay,Grimly they fought, and brute by brute they fell.Paul Hamilton Hayne.