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

      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 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.

      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!"

      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