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BY RALPH RIGMAR OLE, ESQUIRE.
A gallant knight came pricking o'er the plain,
'Eclad in scarlet and in silver sheen,
Of portly bearing and of noble mienFashioned in warlike guise. A goodly train, In like costume, and each with lance in hand,
Followed the chief, who, ever and anon,
Vented in sharp, authoritative tone,
His will and wishes to his valiant band,
Swart was his brow; and as he forward prest,
Brilliantly glittering in the noonday sun,
The bright memorial of some battle won Patted inspiringly the warrior's breast.
No feudal lord was he of vassal loons,
But-Sergeant Simkins of the 8th Dragoons !
A heavenly creature stood before my eyes,
A being fashioned not as mortals are,
But wild in her attire, as if some star
As the last glance of the departing sun;
And down her back the shining tresses hung, Kissing the two soft wings which quiver'd there. A beauteous garland of ever-blooming flowers
From either hand depended, and anon
With light fantastic toe she tripped along,
It was the dead or night—and all was hushid,
Save, ever and anon, the noisy blast
In fitful gusts came whistling wildly past,
Broke indistinctly on my affrighted ear.