University of Virginia Library

What rider rushes on the sight
Adown yon rocky long defile
Swift as an eagle in his flight—
Fierce as a winter's storm at night—
In terror born on Sierra's height,
Careening down some yawning gorge?
His face is flushed, his eye is wild,
And 'neath his courser's sounding feet—
A glance could barely be more fleet—
The rocks are flashing like a forge.
Such reckless rider! I do ween
No mortal man his like has seen.
And yet, but for his long serape
All flowing loose and black as crape,
And long silk locks of blackest hair
All streaming wildly in the breeze,
You might believe him in a chair,
Or chatting at some country Fair
With friend or senorita fair,
He rides so grandly at his ease.

But now he grasps a tighter rein—
A red rein wrought in golden chain—
And in his heavy stirrup stands—
Half turns and shakes a bloody hand
And hurls imaginary blows
And shouts defiance at his foes—
Now lifts his broad hat from his brow
As if to challenge fate, and now
His hand drops to his saddle-bow
And clutches something gleaming there
As if to something more than dare—
While checks the foe as quick as though
His own hand rested on each rein.
The stray winds lift the raven curls—
Soft as a fair Castilian girl's—
And press a brow so full and high,
Its every feature does belie
The thought, he is compelled to fly.
A brow as open as the sky,
On which you gaze and gaze again
As on a picture you have seen
That seems to hold a tale of woe—
Or wonder—you would seek to know.
A brow cut deep, as with a knife,
With many a dubious deed in life;
A brow of blended pride and pain,
And yearnings for what should have been.

He grasps his gilded gory rein,
And wheeling like a hurricane,
Defying flood, or stone, or wood,
Is dashing down the gorge again.
O never yet has prouder steed
Borne master nobler in his need.
There is a glory in his eye
That seems to dare, and to defy
Pursuit, or time, or space, or race.
His body is the type of speed,
While from his nostril to his heel
Are muscles as if made of steel.
He is not black, nor gray, nor white,
But 'neath that broad serape of night,
And locks of darkness streaming o'er,
His sleek sides seem a fiery red,
Though maybe red with gore.
What crimes have made that red hand red?
What wrongs have written that young face
With lines of thought so out of place?
Where flies he? And from where has fled?
And what his lineage and race?
What glitters in his heavy belt
And from his furred catenas gleam?
What on his bosom that doth seem
A diamond bright or dagger's hilt?
The iron hoofs that still resound
Like thunder from the yielding ground
Alone reply; and now the plain,
Quick as you breathe and gaze again,
Is won. Pursuit is baffled and in vain.