Onward, still onward, onward, onward still! And lo! thank Heaven, the mighty Organ hill, That seemed a dim blue cloudlet at the start, Hangs in aerial, fluted cliffs aloft,— And still as through the long, low glacis borne, Beneath the gorge borne ever at wild speed, I saw the mateless mountain eagle wheel Beyond the stark height's topmost pinnacle; I heard his shriek of rage and ravin die Deep down the desolate dells, as far behind I left the gorge, and far before me swept Another plain, tree-bordered now, and bound By the clear river gurgling o'er its bed.
By this, my panting, but unconquered steed Had thrown his small head backward, and his breath Through the red nostrils burst in labored sighs; I bent above his outstretched neck, I threw My quivering arms about him, murmuring low, "Good horse! brave heart! a little longer bear The strain, the travail; and thenceforth for thee Free pastures all thy days, till death shall come! Ah, many and many a time, my noble bay, Her lily hand hath wandered through thy mane, Patted thy rainbow neck, and brought thee ears Of daintiest corn from out the farmhouse loft,— Help, help to save her now!"
I'll vow the brute Heard me, and comprehended what he heard! He shook his proud crest madly, and his eye Turned for a moment sideways, flashed in mine A lightning gleam, whose fiery language said, "I know my lineage, will not shame my sire,— My sire, who rushed triumphant 'twixt the flags, And frenzied thousands, when on Epsom downs Arcturus won the Derby!—no, nor shame My granddam, whose clean body, half enwrought Of air, half fire, through swirls of desert sand Bore Sheik Abdallah headlong on his prey!"
At last came forest shadows, and the road Winding through bush and bracken, and at last The hoarse stream rumbling o'er its quartz-sown crags.
"No, no! stanch Widderin! pause not now to drink; An hour hence, and thy dainty nose shall dip In richest wine, poured jubilantly forth To quench thy thirst, my Beauty! but press on, Nor heed these sparkling waters." God! my brain's On fire once more! an instant tells me all; All! life or death,—salvation or despair! For yonder, o'er the wild grass-matted slope The house stands, or it stood but yesterday.
A Titan cry of inarticulate joy I raised, as, calm and peaceful in the sun, Shone the fair cottage, and the garden-close, Wherein, white-robed, unconscious, sat my Love Lilting a low song to the birds and flowers. She heard the hoof-strokes, saw me, started up, And with her blue eyes wider than their wont, And rosy lips half tremulous, rushed to meet And greet me swiftly. "Up, dear Love!" I cried, "The Convicts, the Bush-rangers! let us fly!" Ah, then and there you should have seen her, friend, My noble, beauteous Helen! not a tear, Nor sob, and scarce a transient pulse-quiver, As, clasping hand in hand, her fairy foot Lit like a small bird on my horseman's boot, And up into the saddle, lithe and light, Vaulting she perched, her bright curls round my face!
We crossed the river, and, dismounting, led O'er the steep slope of blended rock and turf The wearied horse, and there behind a Tor Of castellated bluestone, paused to sweep With young keen eyes the broad plain stretched afar, Serene and autumn-tinted at our feet: "Either," said I, "these devils have gone east, To meet with bloodhound Desborough in his rage Between the granite passes of Luxorme, Or else—dear Christ! my Helen, low! stoop low!" (These words were hissed in horror, for just then, 'Twixt the deep hollows of the river-vale, The miscreants, with mixed shouts and curses, poured Down through the flinty gorge tumultuously, Seeming, we thought, in one fierce throng to charge Our hiding-place.) I seized my Widderin's head, Blindfolding him, for with a single neigh Our fate were sealed o' the instant! As they rode, Those wild, foul-languaged demons by our lair, Scarce twelve yards off, my troubled steed shook wide His streaming mane, stamped on the earth, and pawed So loudly, that the sweat of agony rolled Down my cold forehead; at which point I felt My arm clutched, and a voice I did not know Dropped the low murmur from pale, shuddering lips, "O God! if in those brutal hands I fall, Living, look not into your mother's face Or any woman's more!"
What time had passed Above our bowed heads, we pent, pinioned there By awe and nameless horror, who shall tell? Minutes, perchance, by mortal measurement, Eternity by heart-throbs!—when at length We turned, and eyes of mutual wonder raised, We gazed on alien faces, haggard, worn, And strange of feature as the faces born In fever and delirium! Were we saved? We scarce could comprehend it, till from out The neighboring oak-wood rode our friends at speed, With clang of steel, and eyebrows bent in wrath. But, warned betimes, the wily ruffians fled Far up the forest-coverts, and beyond The dazzling snow-line of the distant hills, Their yells of fiendish laughter pealing faint And fainter from the cloudland, and the mist That closed about them like an ash-gray shroud: Yet were these wretches marked for imminent death: The next keen sunrise pierced the savage gorge, To which we tracked them, where, mere beasts at bay, Grimly they fought, and brute by brute they fell.
Paul Hamilton Hayne.