POETRY.
" THE POLISH RIDER."
(By REM:BRANDT.)
Dom he ride to a bridal, a triumph, a dance, or a fray, That he goes so alert yet so careless, so stern and so gay ?
Loose seat in the saddle, short stirrup, one hand on the inane
Of the light-stepping pony he guides with so easy a rein.
What a grace in his armour barbaric! sword, battle-axe, bow, Full sheaf of long arrows, the leopard-skin flaunting below.
Heart-conqueror, surely—his own is not given, awhile, Till she comes who shall win for herself that inscrutable smile.
What luck had his riding. I wonder, romantic and bold?
For he rides into darkness ; the story shall never be told : Did he charge at Vienna, and fall in a splendid campaign?
Did he fly from the Cossack, and perish, ingloriously slain?
Ah, chivalrous Poland, forgotten, dishonoured, a slave
To thyself and the stranger, fair, hapless, beloved of the bravol F. WI.RRE CORNISH.
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