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

Ho! the breach yawns into ruin, and roars up against her suing, —
Toll slowly.
With the inarticulate din, and the dreadful falling in —
Shrieks of doing and undoing!

Twice he wrung her hands in twain, but the small hands closed again, —
Toll slowly.
Back he reined the steed – back, back! but she trailed along his track
With a frantic clasp and strain.

Evermore the foemen pour through the crash of window and door, —
Toll slowly.
And the shouts of Leigh and Leigh, and the shrieks of "kill!" and "flee!"
Strike up clear amid the roar.

Thrice he wrung her hands in twain, – but they closed and clung again, —
Toll slowly.
Wild she clung, as one, withstood, clasps a Christ upon the rood,
In a spasm of deathly pain.

She clung wild and she clung mute, – with her shuddering lips half-shut, —
Toll slowly.
Her head fallen as half in swound, – hair and knee swept on the ground, —
She clung wild to stirrup and foot.

Back he reined his steed back-thrown on the slippery coping-stone, —
Toll slowly.
Back the iron hoofs did grind on the battlement behind,
Whence a hundred feet went down.

And his heel did press and goad on the quivering flank bestrode,
Toll slowly.
"Friends, and brothers! save my wife! – Pardon, sweet, in change for life, —
But I ride alone to God."

Straight as if the Holy name had upbreathed her like a flame, —
Toll slowly.
She upsprang, she rose upright, – in his selle she sate in sight,
By her love she overcame.

And her head was on his breast, where she smiled as one at rest, —
Toll slowly.
"Ring," she cried, "O vesper-bell, in the beechwood's old chapelle!
But the passing-bell rings best."

They have caught out at the rein, which Sir Guy threw loose – in vain, —
Toll slowly.
For the horse in stark despair, with his front hoofs poised in air,
On the last verge rears amain.

Now he hangs, the rocks between – and his nostrils curdle in, —
Toll slowly.
Now he shivers head and hoof – and the flakes of foam fall off;
And his face grows fierce and thin!

And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go, —
Toll slowly.
And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony
Of the headlong death below, —

And, "Ring, ring, thou passing-bell," still she cried, "i' the old chapelle!" —
Toll slowly.
Then back-toppling, crashing back, – a dead weight flung out to wrack,
Horse and riders overfell.

    Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

IRMINGARD'S ESCAPE

I am the Lady Irmingard,
Born of a noble race and name!
Many a wandering Suabian bard,
Whose life was dreary and bleak and hard,
Has found through me the way to fame.
Brief and bright were those days, and the night
Which followed was full of a lurid light.
Love, that of every woman's heart
Will have the whole, and not a part,
That is to her, in Nature's plan,
More than ambition is to man,
Her light, her life, her very breath,
With no alternative but death,
Found me a maiden soft and young,
Just from the convent's cloistered school,
And seated on my lowly stool,
Attentive while the minstrels sung.

Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall,
Fairest, noblest, best of all,
Was Walter of the Vogelweid;
And, whatsoever may betide,
Still I think of him with pride!
His song was of the summer-time,
The very birds sang in his rhyme;
The sunshine, the delicious air,
The fragrance of the flowers, were there;
And I grew restless as I heard,
Restless and buoyant as a bird,
Down soft, aerial currents sailing,
O'er blossomed orchards, and fields in bloom,