THE DEAD HORSEMAN.
Occasioned by reading the manner of conveying a young man to burial, in the mountainous region about Vettie's Giel, in Norway.
Who's riding o'er the Giel so fast,
'Mid the crags of Utledale?
He heeds nor cold, nor storm, nor blast;
But his cheek is deadly pale.
A fringe of pearl, from his eye-lash long,
Stern Winter's hand hath hung;
And his sinewy arm looks bold and strong,
Though his brow is smooth and young.
O'er his marble forehead, in clusters bright
Is wreathed his golden hair;
His robe is of linen, long and white,
Though a mantle of fur scarce could 'bide the blight
Of this keen and frosty air.
God speed thee now, thou horseman bold!
For the tempest awakes in wrath;
And thy stony eye is fixed and cold
As the glass of thine icy path.
Down, down the precipice wild he breaks,
Where the foaming waters roar;
And his way up the cliff of the mountain takes,
Where man never trod before.
No checking hand to the rein he lends,
On slippery summits sheen;
But ever and aye his head he bends
At the plunge in some dark ravine.
