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 colts Freed from the stock-yard gallop whinnying up; See how he trots towards them,—nose in air, Tail arched, and his still sinewy legs out-thrown In gallant grace before him! A brave beast As ever spurned the moorland, ay, and more,— He bore me once,—such words but smite the truth I' 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 peak Of tall Mount Widderin, towering to the North Most like a steed's head, with full nostrils blown, And ears pricked up),—the sight of Widderin brings That day of days before me, whose strange hours Of fear and anguish, ere the sunset, changed To hours of such content and full-veined joy As Heaven can give our mortal lives but once.
Well, here's the story: While yon bush-fires sweep The distant ranges, and the river's voice Pipes a thin treble through the heart of drouth, While the red heaven like some hugh caldron's top Seems with the heat a-simmering, better far In 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 decades Have passed since that wild autumn-time when last The convict hordes from near Van Diemen, freed By force or fraud, swept, like a blood-red fire, Inland from beach to mountain, bent on raid And rapine.
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So, in late autumn,—'twas a marvellous morn, With breezes from the calm snow-river borne That touched the air, and stirred it into thrills, Mysterious and mesmeric, a bright mist Lapping the landscape like a golden trance, Swathing the hill-tops with fantastic veils, And o'er the moorland-ocean quivering light As gossamer threads drawn down the forest aisles At 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 curled Fantastic in the sunlight! I, with head Thrown back, and cushioned snugly, and with eyes Intent on one grotesque and curious cloud, Puffed upward, that now seemed to take the shape Of a Dutch tulip, now a Turk's face topped By 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 thrusts In deadly combat, question and reply Clashed 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 hear No 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 held My 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 stretch Towards infinity!) like some lone ship O'er wastes of sailless waters: now, a pine, The beacon pine gigantic, whose grim crown Signals the far land-mariner from out Gaunt 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 aside The winds as waves, their swift, invisible breasts Hissing with foam-like noise when pressed and pierced By 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 kangaroo Blundered athwart the mole-hills, and in puffs Of steamy dust-cloud vanished like a mote!