Now who rides rushing on the sight Hard down yon rocky long defile, Swift as an eagle in his flight, Fierce as winter's storm at night Blown from the bleak Sierra's height! Such reckless rider! -I do ween No mortal man his like has seen. And yet, but for his long serape All flowing loose, and black as crape, And long silk locks of blackest hair All streaming wildly in the breeze, You might believe him in a chair, Or chatting at some country fair He rides so grandly at his ease. But now he grasps a tighter rein, A red rein wrought in golden chain, And in his tapidaros stands, Turns, shouts defiance at his foe. And now he calmly bares his brow As if to challenge fate, and now His hand drops to his saddle-bow And clutches something gleaming there As if to something more than dare. The stray winds lift the raven curls, Soft as a fair Castilian girl's, And bare a brow so manly, high, Its every feature does belie The thought he is compell'd to fly; A brow as open as the sky On which you gaze and gaze again As on a picture you have seen And often sought to see in vain, A brow of blended pride and pain, That seems to hold a tale of woe Or wonder, that you fain would know A boy's brow, cut as with a knife, With many a dubious deed in life. Again he grasps his glitt'ring rein, And, wheeling like a hurricane, Defying wood, or stone, or flood, Is dashing down the gorge again. Oh, never yet has prouder steed Borne master nobler in his need! There is a glory in his eye That seems to dare and to defy Pursuit, or time, or space, or race. His body is the type of speed, While from his nostril to his heel Are muscles as if made of steel. What crimes have made that red hand red? What wrongs have written that young face With lines of thought so out of place ? Where flies he ? And from whence has fled ? And what his lineage and race? What glitters in his heavy belt, And from his furr'd cantenas gleam? What on his bosom that doth seem A diamond bright or dagger's hilt? The iron hoofs that still resound Like thunder from the yielding ground Alone reply; and now the plain, Quick as you breathe and gaze again, Is won, and all pursuit is vain.