_By_ ROBERT BROWNING
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
"Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew,
"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through.
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace,--
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'T was a moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokerem, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see;
At Duffeld 't was morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,--
So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"
At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one.
To stare through the midst at us galloping past;
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some blind river headland its spray;
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance;
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.
By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her;
We'll remember at Aix,"--for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh;
'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"
"How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
[Illustration: I CAST LOOSE MY BUFF-COAT]
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer,--
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, an noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is friends flocking round.
As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
When we read this poem, the first question that comes to us is "What
_was_ the 'good news from Ghent?'" But we find on looking up the matter
that the whole incident is a fanciful one; Browning simply imagined a
very dramatic situation, and then wrote this stirring poem about it. And
surely he has made it all seem very real to us. We feel the intense
anxiety of the riders to reach Aix on time--for we are given to
understand in the last line of the third stanza that Aix must learn the
news by a certain hour; we feel the despair of the two who are forced to
give up the attempt, and the increased sense of responsibility of the
only remaining rider; and we fairly hold our breath in our fear that the
gallant Roland will not stand the strain.
The towns mentioned are real places, all of them in Belgium.
Does the poem seem to you somewhat rough and jerky? It is a ballad, and
that fact accounts in part for its style, for ballads are not usually
smooth and perfect in structure.
But there is another reason for the jerkiness, if we may call it by so
strong a name. Read the first two lines aloud, giving them plenty of
swing. Do they not remind you of the galloping of a horse, with their
regular rise and fall? A little poet might have attempted to write about
this wild midnight ride in the same smooth, flowing style in which he
would describe a lazy river slipping over the stones; but Browning was a
great poet, and knew how to fit sound to sense. Other poets may excel
him in writing of quiet, peaceful scenes, but no one who has ever
written could put more dash and vigor into a poem than could Browning.
[Illustration: GHENT]