Classic Poem

Who ' S riding o'er the Giel so fast,
Mid the crags of Utledale?
He heeds not cold nor storm nor blast;
But his cheek is deadly pale.

A fringe of pearl from his eyelash long
Stern winter's hand hath hung;
And his sinewy arm looks bold and strong,
Though his brow is smooth and young.

Round 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 his keen and frosty air.

God speed thee now, thou horseman bold!
For the tempest awakes in wrath;
And thy stony eye is fix'd 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.

Dost thou bow in prayer to the God who guides
Thy course o'er such pavement frail?
Or nod in thy dream on the steep, where glides
The curdling brook with its slippery tides,
Thou horseman so young and pale?

Swift, swift o'er the breast of the frozen streams,
Toward Lyster Church he hies,
Whose holy spire mid the glaciers gleams,
Like a star in troubled skies.

Now stay, thou ghostly traveller—stay;
Why haste in such mad career?
Be the guilt of thy bosom as dark as it may,
'Twere better to purge it here.

On, on! like the winged blast he wends,
Where moulder the bones of the dead—
Wilt thou stir the sleep of thy buried friends,
With thy courser's tramping tread?

At a yawning pit, whose narrow brink
Mid the swollen snow was grooved,
He paused. The steed from that chasm did shrink,
But the rider sate unmoved.

Then down at once, from his lonely seat,
They lifted the horseman pale,
And laid him low in that drear retreat,
And pour'd, in dirge-like measure sweet,
The mournful funeral wail.

Bold youth, whose bosom with pride had glow'd
In a life of toil severe—
Didst thou scorn to pass to thy last abode
In the ease of the slothful bier?
Must thy own good steed, which thy hands had drest,
In the fulness of boyhood's bliss,
By the load of thy lifeless limbs be prest,
On a journey so strange as this?

Yet still to the depth of yon rock-barr'd dell,
Where no ray from heaven hath glow'd,
Where the thundering rush of the Markefoss fell,
The trembling child doth point and tell
How that fearful horseman rode.