The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop :: :: University of Virginia Library

Neptune, in fabulous history we read,
To match Minerva's Olive, form'd the steed.
That Neptune in an Horse, his power should try,
You think it queer perhaps;—and so do I.—
One fact, I'm sure your prompt assent to get;
—That Neptune never form'd an Horseman yet.—
A tar may mount; a tar, when stow'd astride,
May navigate a nag;—no tar can ride!

But this same tale of Neptune, and his tit,
Proves grave Antiquity could fib a bit:
Of which, since now on classic ground we run,
One instance more I'll give; and only one;—

201

The Centaur!—Not an urchin in the place,
But knows the story of the Centaur race;
Half brute; half human!—to himself, of course,
Each was at once the Horseman, and the Horse.
“That could not be,” methinks I hear you say:—
—Bear not too hard on antient legends, pray:
In modern times, ev'n as in times of old,
Things, which can never be, can yet be—told!

One instance, and but one, I said I'd bring:—
So not a word of Pegasus's wing;
Nor those light-horsemen, who the Muse revere,
From Homer, to my friend there, in the rear:—
Let bonâ-fide Horsemen come in play,
Horsemen, on Horseback, in the King's highway!

With solemn pace before the funeral show,
Death's black Horse-guards, grim Undertakers, go;
For form, each rider slow decorum keeps;
For real want, each bare-bone palfrey creeps.

202

With pace as solemn, for a different fee,
The Coronation Champion, cap-à-pè,
Be-plum'd, be-spangled, and be-scarf'd all o'er,
Pricks his proud Prancer up old Rufus' floor:
No fear a foe should his defiance meet:
He keeps his honour,—if he keeps his seat.

If all too tardily these Gents have past,
There are, who ride at least as much too fast.

Thro' thick and thin see College Jockies fly,
As if a thousand duns were hue and cry!
Ask you, “why thus each nerve and sinew strain?”
They gallop forth—to gallop back again.

Beggars on horseback set, our proverbs say,
Ride all at the same rate;—and the same way:
As hard, as whip and spur, and horse-flesh speeds 'em;
As far—as one that shall be nameless, leads 'em.

Between the two extremes, might I advise,
The Horseman's as the Wise man's medium lies:

203

From his first mounting to his journey's end,
Three words the Rider's grammar comprehend:
“Push not up hill—your horse's wind 'twill break:
“Scour not down hill—your own neck is at stake:
“Along the plain” (so my third precept faith)
“Spare not the slug; nor urge the free to death.”

But vain, alas! is all this sapient lore!
Horsemen, perhaps erelong, will be no more!
By Air-balloons our travellers will go;
And leave roads, turnpikes, oceans, all below.

Once in an age, thus frensy takes the lead.—
Well!—let who like it, as they like, proceed:—
But, for the love I bear my corporation,
I'll ne'er be shot up, like an exhalation;
Quit solid ground, on baseless clouds to sail;
And swing a tiffany comet's dangling tail.
To swing!—or not to swing!—perhaps to fall!
Whence?—whither?—Questions! dreadful questions all!

204

Perhaps to flutter at the tempest's will!
And soar; and starve;—worse consummation still!
No—trust me—no! I'd rather, soft and fair,
Kick up a Ten-toe Trot; and ride on Shanks's Mare.