If it chance that any reader of mine has not admired "The Rhyme of the
Duchess May," this page, at least, has not been written in vain. My
saddle-bags held no volume other than a note-book, but that ballad in
manuscript was nearly the last gift bestowed on me in Baltimore. Never
was mortal mood less romantic than mine, so I cannot account for the
fancy which impelled me, there and then, to recite aloud, how
The bridegroom led the flight, on his red roan steed of might;
And the bride lay on his arm, still, as tho' she feared no harm,
Smiling out into the night.
"Fearest thou?" he said at last. "Nay," she answered him in haste,
"Not such death as we could find; only life with one behind,
Ride on--fast as fear--ride fast."
I found one listener, more appreciative than the wild pine-barren, that
surely had never been waked by rhythmic sound since the birthday of
Time. Falcon pricked his ears, and champed his bit cheerily, as he
mended his pace without warning of spur. As for myself--the pure,
earnest Saxon diction proved a more efficient "comforter" than "the
many-colored scarf round my neck, wrought by the same kind white hands
beyond the sea;" hands that, even now, I venture to salute with the lips
of a grateful spirit, in all humility and honor.
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