In the Saddle: A Collection of Poems on Horseback-Riding. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

      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.

      '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.

      So through life's morning, noontide, evening, may

      Ideal hopes dawn, fade, and reappear.

      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.

      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