Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Full sadly mourned the lonely Arab Chief,
With tones of tenderness—and looks of Grief,
The while he stood beside his dying steed,
For whom might help be none in his sore need,
For death triumphant scowl'd beside his prey,
And step by step advanced his hideous sway,
Thus burst, in saddest accents deep and low,
Forth from the Chieftain's lips the plaints of woe.

Thou art dying, dying fast, my steed,
And I look on thee the while—
Thou'rt struggling in the mortal pangs,
Thou—the sharer of my toil—
Companion of my wanderings free,
Aye! and friend, firm friend and true,

Thou art dying, dying fast, my steed—
Must I watch this dark hour through?

As a bugle, was to thee my voice,
As a beacon-light mine eye,
My light caress thy proudest joy,
Must I stand to see thee die!
How wert thou wont triumphantly
The Morning's air to snuff,
Then to dart upon thy foaming course,
Till thy master cried “Enough!”

Like the tempest-wing of rushing Night,
Of Lightnings and of Fire,
Didst thou bear thy rider on and on,
With a strength that could not tire,
Now waxing very weak thou art,
And thine eye is filmed and dull.
Oh! must I stand to see thee die,
Brave steed and beautiful?

And say, was not unto me the light
Of thy glorious eye a star,
And thy nostrils furious snorting loud,
As a sudden tromp of War?
The waving of thy streamy mane,
As a banner free and proud,
My gallant gallant steed of strength—
Must the dust thy fair frame shroud?

Must our long companionship close now,
My comrade and my friend,
Must I seek another, stranger steed,
Or alone in sorrow wend,
What other steed shall bear me, horse,
As thou evermore hast borne
O'er the desert's trackless boundless paths,
As't were on the wings of Morn?

Thy front was like the outshining East,
When 'tis set in flames by Day,

Thy broad bold warrior front—thine eye
E'en as a fount of fire did play,
Thunder-cloathed was thy mighty neck,
And thy hoofs were shod with speed,
And terrible-gentle wert thou still,
Oh! my gallant glorious steed!

But thy fiery grandeur soon must be
In the heavy dust laid low—
Thou that hast borne me like the wind
From the arrows of the foe!
Thy pride of strength and thy boast of speed,
These can nothing now avail,
Thou fail'st as a weed borne down the stream,
As a reed bowed in the gale!

Oh! where the fountain of the wild
Laughed sparkling up and fair,
How oft have we together stopped,
While each hath drank his share,

The draught was dearer from my hands,
My noble horse, I know,
And must I watch thy dying pangs,
Oh! woe—Oh! tenfold woe!

My children aye have played with thee,
And climbed thee without fear,
For gentle wert thou with them still,
As they to thee were dear!
Thy fathers have served my fathers well
And loyally through their line,
Since no Chief-descended-Chiefs may boast
Of blood more pure than thine!

When the dreadful Simoom-columns vast
With their deadly purple gloom,
Have threatened us, how thy flashing speed
Hath saved me from the tomb!
And must I with these hands scoop now
Thy dismal narrow grave,

And hide thee—Son of Morning—thee,
In the dust—thou true and brave!

In the shadow of my quiet tent
Shalt thou take thy peaceful rest,
Calm while the Sun of Victory sleeps
As 'mid clouds quenched on thy breast,
Low in the shadow of that tent
(An unneeded shade, alas!)—
Take thy long and lasting rest, brave horse,
While ages rise and pass!

Aye! the stormy Sun of Victory sleeps
On thy breast of thunder now,
Setting 'midst gathering shadows there,
That come dimly on, and slow,
And within thine eye the blaze grows dull,
The quick and fiery blaze,
Through thy nostrils rolls no more the smoke
Of thy breath, a thousand ways.

Thou'rt helpless now in weakness grown,
And power departs from thee,
Thou that in fulness of thy strength
So tameless seemed to be,
That haughty strength unbowed, unchecked,
'T was noble—'t was sublime—
Thou would'st have made a gallant steed
For the restless Rider—Time!

Methinks, brave steed! thou might'st have borne
The World's eternal weight,
Beneath thy burthen rose so high
Thy mighty heart elate,
Thy dauntless spirit evermore
In impatient daring rose,
And strong with an unearthly strength
Is the frame where that so glows!

'Tis done!—'tis all, all over now—
And 'tis a deep relief,

Bitter to bear thine anguish t'was,
And mine own o'erflowing grief,
But now 'tis past, and thou, with all
Thy wonted fire, art clay;
'Tis done—'tis done—then let me turn
My heavy steps away.

And the proud Chief concealed awhile his face
In his raised hands, then turned to leave the place,
Yet paused awhile and turned and looked again,
As though to drain the last worst drop of pain,
To hug the whole dark sorrow to his heart,
Ere yet from that sad scene he would depart,
He looked—then turned with aspect sad and mild—
And wept that Chief—as weeps a little child!