| |
| THREE twangs of the horn, and they ’re all out of cover! | |
| Must brave you, old bull-finch, that ’s right in the way! | |
| A rush, and a bound, and a crash, and I ’m over! | |
| They ’re silent and racing and for’ard away; | |
| Fly, Charley, my darling! Away and we follow; | 5 |
| There ’s no earth or cover for mile upon mile; | |
| We ’re wing’d with the flight of the stork and the swallow; | |
| The heart of the eagle is ours for a while. | |
| |
| The pasture-land knows not of rough plough or harrow! | |
| The hoofs echo hollow and soft on the sward; | 10 |
| The soul of the horses goes into our marrow; | |
| My saddle’s a kingdom, and I am its lord: | |
| And rolling and flowing beneath us like ocean, | |
| Gray waves of the high ridge and furrow glide on, | |
| And small flying fences in musical motion, | 15 |
| Before us, beneath us, behind us, are gone. | |
| |
| O puissant of bone and of sinew availing, | |
| On thee how I ’ve long’d for the brooks and the showers! | |
| O white-breasted camel, the meek and unfailing, | |
| To speed through the glare of the long desert hours! | 20 |
| And, bright little barbs, ye make worthy pretences | |
| To go with the going of Solomon’s sires; | |
| But you stride not the stride, and you fly not the fences! | |
| And all the wide Hejaz is naught to the shires. | |
| |
| O gay gondolier! from thy night-flitting shallop | 25 |
| I have heard the soft pulses of oar and guitar; | |
| But sweeter the rhythmical rush of the gallop, | |
| The fire in the saddle, the flight of the star. | |
| Old mare, my beloved, no stouter or faster | |
| Hath ever strode under a man at his need; | 30 |
| Be glad in the hand and embrace of thy master, | |
| And pant to the passionate music of speed. | |
| |
| Can there e’er be a thought to an elderly person | |
| So keen, so inspiring, so hard to forget, | |
| So fully adapted to break into burgeon | 35 |
| As this—that the steel is n’t out of him yet; | |
| That flying speed tickles one’s brain with a feather; | |
| That one’s horse can restore one the years that are gone; | |
| That, spite of gray winter and weariful weather, | |
| The blood and the pace carry on, carry on? | 40 |
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