 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
THE WINGED STEED.
I.
What! laugh they to behold my steed?They little know his blood and breed,
His fiery heart, his lightning speed—
How soon he cleaves the height!
What glorious impulse gives him way,
When, breaking bonds of time and clay,
He sees the clouds around him play,
And beats them down in flight!
II.
They saw him first on lowly plains,The harness crushing on his reins,
Grief in his soul, and in his veins
A feverish sense of wrong;
The lowly herd, with brutal force,
That baulked him ever on the course,
Baffling his native free resource,
And trampling on it long!
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III.
They saw him with his fires subdued,In weary hour, in abject mood,
Worn in the conflict, driven to brood
In pastures not his own;
They saw him droop beneath the yoke,
Shrink, smarting from the thong and stroke,
His limbs o'erborne, his spirit broke,
Scourged, scorn'd, and still alone.
IV
They saw him ever by the herdWronged or abandoned—crushed or stirr'd
By usage base—still unpreferred—
To service vile decreed;
They knew not that, by instinct taught,
Unerring, every heart was fraught
With rage, and into hatred wrought,
As conscious of his meed.
V.
He was not of their race—he boreA power to them unknown before,
And still a haughty carriage wore,
That goaded pride to hate;
He loved not with the rest to rove,
Still went apart—still went above—
And lovely, seemed to seek no love,
And matchless, found no mate.
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VI.
For this they hated!—strange, how well,With what foul art and blasting spell,
How worthy all the fires of hell,
They wrought for his annoy!
How they pursued—how banded still,
To vex the soul, the spirit kill,
And goad, with ceaseless work of ill,
As seeking to destroy.
VII.
For long they triumph'd—oh! how longHe sunk and suffered 'neath the wrong,
Gnawed vainly at the cruel thong,
That bound him to despair:
But still in soul and strength he grew,
When none beheld, or but the few;
The secret power his spirit knew,
Still taught him how to bear!
VIII.
How should they deem—the vain, the blind,That tramp the noblest of their kind—
That he should rise at last, nor find
Obstruction in their hate;
That he, the meanest of the herd—
So held—should be at last preferr'd—
Should win the world's applauding word,
And speed without a mate?
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IX.
They mock, they hiss—with scorn they cry,Still seeing with their ancient eye:
“Behold, what crude deformity—
He hath nor grace nor might!”
Armed with their former fires of wrath,
They fain would blast the powers he hath,
And set their snares upon his path,
And seek to mar his flight.
X.
With jeer of malice, howl of hate,Blind fury, and bad hopes, elate,
They crowd his course, and strive with fate,
To crush and conquer still:
They laugh to scorn the few who cheer,
O'erwhelm the applause with fiendish sneer,
Would bar his passage, could they dare
Encounter whom they kill!
XI.
He comes—he treads the course—they see,And wonder, with what motion free,
What ease of limb, what majesty,
He passeth o'er the plain;
Whence got he that imperial grace,
That makes him native to the place,
And lifts him o'er the lowlier race,
That watch his steps with pain?
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XII.
They never saw before the firesBlaze in that eye, which now aspires,
As with a wing of fierce desires
That need no mortal rest;
Such vigor in those limbs; and still
They dream not of the seraph will
Which nerves—the impulsive, holy thrill
That lightens through his breast!
XIII.
How should they see—the wilful blind—Or wish, in him they hate, to find
The soul that makes him, of his kind,
The conqueror, born to sway?
'Tis ruled that, as we toil, we gain;
Who seeks not, finds not; and in vain
The pleasure, born of others' pain,
That feeds not those who prey!
XIV.
Still laugh they to behold my steed!They pamper thus the ancient need,
Though yet they doubt his strength and speed
To win the imperial goal:
They know not of the power that grows
From patient watch and mighty woes,
Well borne, for long, through fiercest throes
Of the ambitious soul:
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XV.
What muscle springs from patient toil,What soul from commerce with the soil,
What impulse, when the world, with foil,
And force, hath baffled long;
What—in the hour of wild delight,
That opens fair the field for flight—
The hope that then dilates the sight,
The will that makes it strong!
XVI.
He speeds, he bounds, he darts away—At once unfold the gates of day;
The skies come down; with joyous ray
Suns round his pathway grow!
Ha! Now they start—they see the wings
Spread from each side, as off he springs,
With flight that leaves all meaner things
Afar, behind, below!
XVII.
Where, now, the favorites of the crowd,Hailed late with plaudits long and loud,
The pride of hosts, themselves too proud
To toil with patient brow?
Shouts, plaudits, nursing friends, and aid—
Sleek service, and the hirelings paid
To lie for pertness in brocade—
Are all but mockery now!
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XVIII.
The strife is o'er, ere yet begun!The courser, kindred to the sun,
Sweeps o'er the field—the goal is won!
The hooting hosts of Hate
Depart in fury; shut their eyes;
Deny—for Envy still denies—
The right to him who takes the prize,
The master, he, of Fate!
XIX.
See, where he speeds—how proud the flight—What giant wings to win the height,
Where, on the mountain tops, alight,
He sways the plains beneath!
How changed the shout, the cry, the song—
The servile mass that mock'd his wrong,
Most clamorous now, with echoes long,
That speak their perfect faith.
XX.
Believe them, and they always knewThe wonders that his wing could do,
His matchless grace, his empire true,
And all the gifts he bore!—
Alas! how blasting first to sight,
The sudden glory of his flight,
That wing of majesty and might—
That sway they curse no more!
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XXI.
Blind mouths! that ponder as they breed,That never knew their better need,
Still, for a life, on garbage feed,
Nor dream how base their fare;
While daily, nightly, from the skies,
The quail and manna fall, their eyes
See not the heavenly food that lies
Around, and bids them share!
XXII.
They wander wide in sterile ways,Self-led, self-blinded, all their days;
The shepherd comes—instead of praise
And thanks, the wolfish crew
Set on him with keen fangs and rend!—
Ah, God! be merciful—still send
The shepherd, these to save, befriend—
They know not what they do!
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |