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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
125
XXV
SONG
What rider up Gobeloin's glen
Has spurred his straining steed,
And fast and far from living men
Has passed with maddening speed?
I saw his hoof-prints mark the rock,
When swift he left the plain;
I heard deep down the echoing shock
Re-echo back again.
From cliff to cliff, thro' rock and heath,
That coal-black courser bounds;
Nor heeds the river pent beneath,
Nor marks how fierce it sounds.
With streaming hair, and forehead bare
And mantle waving wide
His master rides; the eagle there
Soars up on every side;
The goats fly by with timid cry,
Their realm rashly won;
They pause—he still ascends on high—
They gaze, but he is gone.
