The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 7

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 'Good speed!' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; 'Speed!' echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting; but, while we drew near Lokeren, the c.o.c.ks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So Joris broke silence with, 'Yet there is time!'

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last, With resolute shoulders each b.u.t.ting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other p.r.i.c.ked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!

And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Ha.s.selt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, 'Stay spur!

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix'--for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Loos and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our foot broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-tower sprang white, And 'Gallop,' cried Joris, 'for Aix is in sight!'

'How they'll greet us!' and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast my loose buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

_R. Browning_

XXVIII

_THE RAINBOW_

A fragment of a rainbow bright Through the moist air I see, All dark and damp on yonder height, All bright and clear to me.

An hour ago the storm was here, The gleam was far behind, So will our joys and grief appear, When earth has ceased to blind.

Grief will be joy if on its edge Fall soft that holiest ray, Joy will be grief if no faint pledge Be there of heavenly day.

_J. Keble_

XXIX

_THE RAVEN AND THE OAK_

Underneath an old oak tree There was of swine a huge company, That grunted as they crunch'd the mast: For that was ripe and fell full fast.

Then they trotted away, for the wind it grew high One acorn they left and no more might you spy.

Next came a Raven that liked not such folly: He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy!

Blacker was he than blackest jet, Flew low in the rain and his feathers not wet.

He picked up the acorn and buried it straight By the side of a river both deep and great.

Where then did the Raven go?

He went high and low, Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.

Many autumns, many springs Travelled he with wandering wings; Many summers, many winters-- I can't tell half his adventures.

At length he came back, and with him a she, And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree.

They built them a nest in the topmost bough, And young ones they had and were happy enow.

But soon came a woodman in leathern guise, His brow, like a pent house, hung over his eyes.

He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke, But with many a hem! and a st.u.r.dy stroke, At length he brought down the poor Raven's old oak.

His young ones were killed, for they could not depart, And their mother did die of a broken heart.

The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever; And they floated it down on the course of the river.

They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip, And with this tree and others they made a good ship.

The ship it was launched; but in sight of the land Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand.

It bulged on a rock, and the waves rushed in fast: Round and round flew the Raven and cawed to the blast.

He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls-- See! see! o'er the top-mast the mad water rolls!

Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet, And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet, And he thanked him again and again for this treat: They had taken his all, and revenge it was sweet.

_S. T. Coleridge_

x.x.x

_ODE TO THE CUCKOO_

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!

Thou messenger of spring!

Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant, with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts the new voice of spring to hear, And imitates the lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!

We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the spring.

_Michael Bruce_