Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/40

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'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.