University of Virginia Library

The cribs in Death's dread Stables are but seven,
And of these seven but six were occupied.
The empty one, more roomy than the others,
No token in its furnishings revealed
By which to guess when it was last in use.
Seven eyeless masks on seven rusty pegs—
The staves and parted girdings of a pail—
A mop, a pitchfork, and a curry-comb,
And in the rack a mouldy wisp of hay
My glance took in, with other equine gear
And musty provender; no date of when
The going forth! no preparation made
To welcome back the Rider and his Steed.
A leaden chill pervaded the compartment
That more benumbed than does my coldest breath;
Such as inhales the Walrus in his cave,
And Kraken, when he tugs my Icebergs out.
It grasped the heart, as with a hand of steel,
And all its ducts and arteries choked up;
The brain it petrified, and, as it were,
Let fall a curtain o'er the throne of Thought.

Upon my Uhlans' faces I descried
The working of a great spasmodic shock—
Strange corrugations—twistings of the features—
A death approached of all Intelligence!

Out of this stall we hurried with all speed,
The groom in charge not bidding us to stay,
Rather, by gesture, hasting our retreat.
No guessing needed it, no setting forth
By an interpreter, into whose crib,
Armed with authority, we had set foot!

I watched the Master,
He watching me with an assiduous eye,
Knave in the grain—a murderous, scheming knave!
He knew his vantage-time, but I beforehand
Took him at vantage, and waved back my Uhlans,
Else it had cost them dear, and, as it was,
Staggering, they reached the threshold of the den.

With freer breath towards the neighbouring stall
We stepped. The daggers, strange to say!
Which on our Guide's face hitherto had gleam'd,
All of a sudden became snugly sheathed,
And the impassive clods of his reticence
Gave way unto a garrulous exordium,
Touching the charger under our review.

The moon-faced goblin at his elbow chuckled,
And drank in every word the Master spake,
As if it were a vinous compliment
Paid to himself and his discharge of trust.

“This is a Horse! look to it, Ancient!
And you nigh smother'd in the crib hard by!
The telling picture of a thorough-bred!
Examine him. His teeth are all entire;
You can't pronounce him aged on this score;
Nor is it an objection that they shew
A cannibal propensity. His grand-dam
The favourite mare was in the dainty stalls
Of Diomede, the quondam King of Thrace,
Whom doughty Hercules was charged to brain—
Him and his stud! Horses were epicures
In those brave days, and fed on fattened babes.
Such fare gave wind and muscle, speed and mettle.
Look to it, Ancient! how this Horse is fashioned!
His pasterns upright and his fetlocks curt,
Lash-legg'd and round, but bony in the knees,
Neck long, and like a galley's prow upreared;
Ample the eye and black, the ear high-prick'd
But small, proportion taken into account,
The forehead large and lean, the withers sharp
And pointed, deep the flanks and bulging out;
Of ample belly, warded well with rib—
Short in the back and even—double-chined—
Thighs long and large, but muscular withal—
The truncheon aptly couched, and well set on—
Mane narrow-ridg'd, not scant, nor yet redundant—
This is the Horse before you, my most Ancient!
The colour you object to? liver-coloured;
'Tis an objection of some force, I admit.
The feeding of his grand-dam may account for't;
But blood makes blood, and the high colour showing
On the outside betokens pedigree—
The dam and not the sire predominates.
Our wholesome custom is to sink the Sire.
More than enough of Him is prevalent
Hereabouts, and we send to grass out yonder
(Pointing in the direction of the churchyard)
The colts that take to him too partially.
This is no school for horses of that sort,
Which cast no shadow, and no hoof-tracks shed;
But come, my hearties—by your looks, I guess,
This limb of the renowned Androphagi
Is not in favour—on the round we'll go,
And what we have in ward and keeping show.”

In the next crib there stood a Horse superb,
And black as coal from tip of ear to hoof,
That knew instinctively of our approach,
Nor neighed nor pranced, nor demonstration made
Of joy or terror, but with stately front
Regarded us in equine dignity.
He needed no laudation from the Guide,
So patent were his merits at all points.
A grander Stallion, save his Pallid Brother,
And He not grander, only more empower'd—
More favour'd, more in keeping with the Rider—
Ne'er shewed since headstrong Phæton took in hand
To guide the flaming chariot of the sun,
Deeming himself an expert with the reins.

Upon that day of retribution dire,
When from his rack of fire-bolts, Jove, incensed,
The deadliest snatched, by Mulciber devised
For special paroxysms, and with aim
Vindictive hurled it at the hapless youth.
Of the unwonted violence of the stroke
Partook the frantic coursers, Phlegon most,
Once purple-hued, but by the charring fumes
Made black as Erebus. From Phlegon sprang,
As the great-grandsire of his sable dam
(For sable ruled immaculate, from tip
Of ear to hoof, throughout the whole descent)
The Horse before us. During the Eclipse
Which shrouded Heav'n and Earth—thatsin'ster hour,
When with a clang the gates of Paradise
Closed on the outcast pair—first of the race
Of Mortals—on that hour, Tradition saith,
Were foaled, outside the forfeited domain,
Twin Steeds—the one the pallid Steed of Death!
The other stands before us in his dread,
The grander of the Twain, but not the chosen,
Nor deemed the fittest for the Smiter's work!

Tradition saith, 'twas in a cavern
Close by the gate through which the outcasts fled,
This double birth took place. Were gather'd there
A concourse of foreshadowed demigods,
In the expectancy of something dread,
Which would imperil their verity of being—
Concuss and jumble epochs, dates delete,
And to perdition hurl Mythology.
The Lapithæ, Theseus, and Hercules,
Bellerophon and winged Pegasus—
The Centaur Chiron, and grim Steropes,
The Cyclop who at Lemnos ruled the forge,
And shod the saffron horses of the Morn—
The Gemini and other monstrous shapes
That came from tampering of the Heaven with Earth,
Divinities with gross humanities,
And intercourse of more unnatural sort;
Such forms were there made heroes by the brain
Of those who deeply drank of Hippocrene,
Or the strong waters freighted from the North,
To which the seasoned juices of the grape,
Be it Falernian or of Cretan growth,
Put in comparison, are whey of milk—
A dullard's drink provocative of drivel.

Seemed presence-struck himself, the while he gave,
Touching this horse's pedigree and birth,
A rambling narrative, our surly Guide!
Nor did its subject deign to notice him,
Until he ventured on disparagement
Of his twin brother, and a contrast drew
In fulsome terms in favour of the listener;
Then with his hoof right angrily the charger
Pawed, and the flinty pavement underneath
A spray of scintillating fire threw up;
And when renewed was the comparison,
Again he pawed, and with distended nostril,
Out from the crib to courtyard and to camp
Of burial, far, sent forth a neigh of fury,
Which made the grazers start, the scourers halt,
And reached, so told me a responsive neigh,
The ear of the Pale Horse. Death's ear impassive,
Ay! and impervious to all flattery,
Was taken for the moment by assault,
Else had been no return of compliment,
So I divined. The Battle news which ranged
Along the wires that night was terrible,
And spoke to the extinction of a Nation.

Such admiration did the sable Horse
Excite, the Uhlan Tempest stood astonied,
Famine expressed his wonder open-mouthed,
And Pestilence made muttering to himself
Of Vivisection and the Rinderpest.

I noted how the Master of Death's Stud
Watched them, and read the expression of their thoughts,
And how in turn he scanned my immobile face,
As if some scrap of scripture might o'erpass it
That he could take advantage of. At length,
Baulk'd of the sought-for opportunity,
But trusting to the die, he signall'd for
The moon-faced groom to lead the sable steed
Out to the Courtyard, so Death's favoured guest
Might scrutinise his points and give a judgment.

The Urchin knew his charge, his charge knew him,
And needed neither coaxing nor the halter,
But readily, his ire being pacified,
Stepp'd out with head erect, proud as a Czar!
Approached him first, the Uhlan Pestilence,
In hound-like posture, sniffing like a hound
Intent on carrion; his cadaverous brow
Lit up with a malign expectancy.
At venture out he jerked his hideous arms,
Swivell'd on which were hands of cruel cast,
Set off with digits, wiry, crooked, lean,
Adapted to the practice of the Thug,
Or skilled garotter from the murder-dens
Of some great city on the rove let loose.

Of his officiousness I made rebuke,
But he excused it, as a proof of zeal,
And gave me to imagine he was versed
In all the parts and bearings of the horse;
His judgment did me service, he implied,
Nor further cared I to dispute his humour;
For in the Charger's ample eye, I read
A dangerous something that sufficed to show
The lack of grace in which my Uhlan stood,
And in what peril, should he presumptuously
Lay hand upon the bridle (for the Horse,
As if by magic, in the courtyard showed
In harness deft, caparisoned and shod,
Ready for action at some rider's beck,
But who the rider was, a riddle still!)
Nor did the varlet fail himself to note
The dangerous glitter of the equine eye,
And, deeming it were best to be discreet,
Avoided it, but not escaped the scorn
That flashed upon him, and the loathing shewn,
Which smote his inner consciousness the more,
That not by endowed speech it was exprest,
But by the instincts of a quadruped.

The Uhlan Famine made his venture next,
And press'd, but with subdued effrontery,
His gaunt and ghastly presence into view.
With quiet scorn the Horse regarded him
As one he could annihilate with scorn,
But cared not to lose virtue on account of.
Without more effort, his disdain availed
To cow my ill-appointed servitor,
And back he slunk. No mount this Horse for him!

Tempest the while stood grandly in the background
Communing with the Master; in a whisper
The one the other sounding, as those do
With Stable-craft familiar—not a doubt!
Nevertheless, some shew of merriment,
At the repulse of Pestilence and Famine,
Took place betwixt them; and the sable steed,
On the dismissal of his noisome suitors,
Encouraged it, neighing disdainfully—
Tossing his tail about and glossy mane—
Pawing, yet not with fury as before,
But in a coaxing manner, his full eye
Fixed on the Uhlan Tempest, as the eye
Would of an ardent soldier on the Chief,
In whose advance was victory assured
That led to highest meed of proud renown.

On revelation of this equine fancy,
The Uhlan Tempest, with an oath abrupt,
And at a stride or two, betokening scorn
Of his adviser, to the steed drew near,
Which, in its own way, gave encouragement
And opportunity to grip the bridle;
Nor did he hesitate a pulse's beat
To take advantage of the proffer'd honour;
But, ere the pulse's beat had well expired,
Was firm in saddle, as an oak on the earth,
Or Pharos stablished by the hand of might
And compassing around of thought with thought
In centre frantic of conflicting seas.
A great delight it was, and overjoyed me,
Casting aside the terrors and the horrors
Of my strange journeying through the silent valley,
To note the overjoy of Steed and Rider,
And how at once they took to being one—
One in the purpose, one in the desire,
Both as one shape, to execute my will.

Neighed forth the Horse a neigh of exultation,
Expressive of redemption from Death's Crib
And jubilant welcome to its swarthy Rider.
A neigh responsive quickly caught the ear,
And ere it died away the Sable Horse,
Bearing my faithful Uhlan, disappeared;
And a fierce wind arose that fluttering set
The awful Flag upon Death's fortalice,
And from the hall of banquetting evoked
The rattling of dry bones. Let Pestilence
Shift for himself, and Famine for himself!
There yet remain four cribs unvisited
From which to choose their mounts. I'm in no hurry
To have their service. Meantime, they may go,
Play pitch and toss with the dare-devil Master,
Or take a turn at skittles with his grooms.
Only let Famine be on the alert,
For I shall summon him by Trumpet blast
At hands of Tempest when the Siege is pressed,
And there are breaches in the city walls.
Pestilence, the skunk, may go, make terms with Summer
All through the dog-days. . . . Meanwhile,
Upon my fav'rite Uhlan's track I press.

Farewell! O Death, my Brother!
Farewell! O Sin, thy Mother!
Farewell, O Valley dread—
And thy abhorrent river!
Farewell! ye Shades that tread
Toward that Valley's head!
Farewell, farewell, for ever!