 | Carol and Cadence |  |
THE CARTHORSE.
Midsummer in the skies unclouded burns;
The sun of noontide falls, with all its Dog-day force,
Upon a horse,
That, patient, at the corner stands and turns
His melancholy eye, appealing, sad,
On me,
As recognizing one, to whom recourse
Beast, bird or child in vain yet never had.
What is it ails thee, friend? Ah, there, I see:
The strap,
Whereby the nosebag o'er thy head was passed,
By some mishap,
Hath broken loose and down upon the ground
Its burden dropped, whilst thou, poor beast, being fast
To the constraining shafts, in the fierce heat
Disconsolate standest, hungering, yet meek,
And look'st, with mild misgiving gaze, around,
As if to seek
Some charitable hand to help thee to thy meat.
The sun of noontide falls, with all its Dog-day force,
Upon a horse,
That, patient, at the corner stands and turns
His melancholy eye, appealing, sad,
On me,
As recognizing one, to whom recourse
Beast, bird or child in vain yet never had.
What is it ails thee, friend? Ah, there, I see:
The strap,
Whereby the nosebag o'er thy head was passed,
By some mishap,
Hath broken loose and down upon the ground
Its burden dropped, whilst thou, poor beast, being fast
To the constraining shafts, in the fierce heat
Disconsolate standest, hungering, yet meek,
And look'st, with mild misgiving gaze, around,
As if to seek
Some charitable hand to help thee to thy meat.
Out knife, and in a trice the trick is done!
A new hole deftly bored, to hold the buckle-pin,
The strap within;
And lightly o'er thy head the bag is run,
Its mouth convenient offering to thine own.
So thou,
Unhampered, mayst anew to feed begin.
Then a step forward, where some shade is thrown
By the o'erhanging eaves, I lead thee. Now
At ease
From the brain-battering sun thou stand'st, at least,
Where some slight breeze
Freshens thy weary limbs and head down bowed,
And I may leave thee to thy frugal feast,
Obtempered having to thy silent suit,
Regardless of the idle passers-by,
Who gape and gather in an idiot crowd,
Dull wondering why
A man should service stay to render to a brute.
A new hole deftly bored, to hold the buckle-pin,
The strap within;
And lightly o'er thy head the bag is run,
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So thou,
Unhampered, mayst anew to feed begin.
Then a step forward, where some shade is thrown
By the o'erhanging eaves, I lead thee. Now
At ease
From the brain-battering sun thou stand'st, at least,
Where some slight breeze
Freshens thy weary limbs and head down bowed,
And I may leave thee to thy frugal feast,
Obtempered having to thy silent suit,
Regardless of the idle passers-by,
Who gape and gather in an idiot crowd,
Dull wondering why
A man should service stay to render to a brute.
But still thy gaze on me, thy fodder o'er,
As if, “Nay, go not yet!” beseeching, thou dost bend.
What is it, friend?
What ails thee yet? What wilt thou with me more?
That which I might indeed for thee I've done,
God wot:
Thy food unto thy lips I did commend
Again and eased thee of the galling sun.
For thee what more than this, meknoweth not,
I can.
But with thy look thou answerest me, “Thou
That art a man,
(And Man forsooth's the beasts' Divinity,)
My body hast thou succoured. Succour now
My sad dumb soul, that cannot voice its needs.
Help it return unto its dreamland's home:
From this grim round of grief deliver me
And let me roam
Once more the pleasant plains, the fragrant, flowering meads!”
As if, “Nay, go not yet!” beseeching, thou dost bend.
What is it, friend?
What ails thee yet? What wilt thou with me more?
That which I might indeed for thee I've done,
God wot:
Thy food unto thy lips I did commend
Again and eased thee of the galling sun.
For thee what more than this, meknoweth not,
I can.
But with thy look thou answerest me, “Thou
That art a man,
(And Man forsooth's the beasts' Divinity,)
My body hast thou succoured. Succour now
My sad dumb soul, that cannot voice its needs.
Help it return unto its dreamland's home:
From this grim round of grief deliver me
And let me roam
Once more the pleasant plains, the fragrant, flowering meads!”
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Alack, poor friend, I can no more for thee!
Man as I am, I share with thee in thy duresse;
Bondman, no less
Than thou, am I of blind fatality:
An exile, too, in this our world of woe
Am I
And know no balsam for the soul's distress.
Like thee, I walk its ways of strife and show,
Condemned in grief and gloom to live and die,
Nor hope
To see the enchanted meadows of my dreams,
Under Heaven's scope
Of gold and azure, flower beneath my feet.
Yet, if, beyond this place of shows and seems,
The lovelands of our hope, indeed, exist,
I doubt not, as with all on earth that fare
The exile's rugged road, with thee to meet,
Meek martyr, there;
And there, beyond Death's gate, poor friend, I give thee tryst.
Man as I am, I share with thee in thy duresse;
Bondman, no less
Than thou, am I of blind fatality:
An exile, too, in this our world of woe
Am I
And know no balsam for the soul's distress.
Like thee, I walk its ways of strife and show,
Condemned in grief and gloom to live and die,
Nor hope
To see the enchanted meadows of my dreams,
Under Heaven's scope
Of gold and azure, flower beneath my feet.
Yet, if, beyond this place of shows and seems,
The lovelands of our hope, indeed, exist,
I doubt not, as with all on earth that fare
The exile's rugged road, with thee to meet,
Meek martyr, there;
And there, beyond Death's gate, poor friend, I give thee tryst.
| Carol and Cadence | |