The Boundary Rider Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: AABB CCDD EEFF GGHH IIJJ KKDD LLMM NNOO PPDD

The bridle reins hang loose in the hold of his lean left handA
As the tether gives the horse bends browsing down to the sandA
On the pommel the right hand rests with a smoking briar blackB
Whose thin rings rise and break as he gazes from the trackB
-
Already the sun is aslope high still in a pale hot skyC
And the afternoon is fierce in its glare the wide plains lieC
Empty as heaven and silent smit with a vast despairD
The face of a Titan bound for whom is no hope nor careD
-
Hoar are its leagues of bush and tawny brown is its soilE
In that immensity lost are human effort and toilE
A few scattered sheep in the scrub hardly themselves to be seenF
One man in the wilderness lone beside a primaeval sceneF
-
Firm and upright in his saddle as a soldier upon paradeG
Yet graceful too is his seat for Nature this horseman madeG
From childhood a fearless rider now like a centaur heH
And half of his strength is gone when he jumps from the saddle treeH
-
Back from his sweat wet hair his felt is carelessly placedI
Handkerchief at his throat sagging shirt round a lank firm waistI
True to the set of strong loins the belted moleskins are tightJ
Plain from forehead to stirrup a virile vigour in sightJ
-
Yet scarce more than a boy but the long blaze not more sureK
Has left on the countenance spare a hue that shall ever endureK
Than the life of the plains has set reliance and courage thereD
Constancy manliness frank in a young face debonairD
-
He should be no less who rides for ever each spacious boundL
Better than human speech he knows the desert aroundL
He journeys from dawn to dusk and always he rides aloneM
The hue of the wilderness takes as his mind its monotoneM
-
He hears the infrequent cries shrieking or hoarse and slowN
Sheep bleating the minah's scream the monologue of the crowN
He rides in a manless land and in leagues of the salt bush plainO
Seeks day after day for change and seeks it ever in vainO
-
In his hands his life each morn as he swings to his leathern seatP
Woe to him if he falls where as water the plain sucks heatP
Alone in a vast still tomb cruel and loth to spareD
Death waits for each sense and slays whilst the doomed wretch feels despairD

Thomas William Heney



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