The warren was sacred, yet he and I dared To career through its heath till the rabbits were scared: The linen, half-bleach'd, must be rinsed o'er again; But we weathered all gales, and the years sped away, * It was true: his fixed doom was no longer a joke; And the sob of keen anguish burst forth unsuppress'd. A shot, a faint howl,—and old Pincher was dead. Eliza Cook. * A stanza omitted. The piece has been made to end here, but there are five more stanzas. Poor Old Horse ONCE I lay in stable, a hunter well and warm, I had the best of shelter from cold and rain and harm; But now in open meadow, a hedge I'm glad to find, To shield my sides from tempest, from driving sleet and wind. Poor old horse, let him die! My shoulders once were sturdy, were glossy, smooth, and round, But now, alas! they're rotten, I'm not accounted sound. My master frowns upon me; I often hear him say, A groom upon me waited, on straw I snugly lay, Poor old horse, let him die ! My shoes and skin, the huntsman that covets them shall have, My flesh and bones the hounds, sir! I very freely give, Ye gentlemen of England, ye sportsmen good and bold, O put him in your stable, and make the old boy warm, The Arab's Farewell to his Steed MY beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by With thy proudly-arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye; Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy wingèd speed : I may not mount on thee again—thou'rt sold, my Arab steed! Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind, The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind. The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold; Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell!-thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold. Farewell! Those free, untirèd limbs full many a mile must roam, To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home. Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare; The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care. The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be; Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again. Yes, thou must go! The wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky, Thy master's home-from all of these my exiled one must fly. Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to meet. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright; Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed, Then must I, starting, wake to feel-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed! Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side; And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes which rest on thee may count each starting vein. Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be, Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free; And yet if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn, Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return ? Return!—alas, my Arab steed! what shall thy master do, When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his view ? When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage, appears ? Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on; And, sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think, "It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!" When last I saw him drink!—away! the fevered dream is o'er ! I could not live a day and know that we should meet no more ! They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long. |