 | The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq |  |
286
ODE.
[_]
Written for, and sung at the Anniversary of the Massachusetts Association, for improving the breed of Horses, October 21, 1811.
Tune—“TALLY HO.”
The Steeds of Apollo, in coursing the day,
Breathe the fire, which he beams on mankind;
To the world while his light from his car they convey,
Their speed is the blaze of his mind.
Thus Ambition, who governs of honour the chace,
Keeps Life's mettled Coursers in glow;
For Fame is the Gaol, and the World is the Race,
And, hark forward! they start! Tally ho!
Breathe the fire, which he beams on mankind;
To the world while his light from his car they convey,
Their speed is the blaze of his mind.
Thus Ambition, who governs of honour the chace,
Keeps Life's mettled Coursers in glow;
For Fame is the Gaol, and the World is the Race,
And, hark forward! they start! Tally ho!
All ranks try the turf; 'tis the contest of life,
By a heat to achieve a renown;
And so thronged are the lists in the emulous strife,
That but few know what steed is their own;
For many, like Gilpin, alarmed at the blood,
Lose their rein and their course, as they go:
While the Rider, high trained, knows each pace in his stud,
And, hark forward! he flies, Tally ho!
By a heat to achieve a renown;
And so thronged are the lists in the emulous strife,
That but few know what steed is their own;
For many, like Gilpin, alarmed at the blood,
Lose their rein and their course, as they go:
While the Rider, high trained, knows each pace in his stud,
And, hark forward! he flies, Tally ho!
The Hero's a War-horse, whose brave, gen'rous breed,
Scorns the spur, though he yields to the rein;
Blood and bone, at the trump-call he vaults in full speed,
And contends for his own native plain.
In battle he glories; and pants, like his Sire,
On the soil, where he grazed, to lie low;
See his neck clothed with thunder, his mane flaked with fire,
While, hark forward! he springs, Tally ho!
Scorns the spur, though he yields to the rein;
Blood and bone, at the trump-call he vaults in full speed,
And contends for his own native plain.
287
On the soil, where he grazed, to lie low;
See his neck clothed with thunder, his mane flaked with fire,
While, hark forward! he springs, Tally ho!
The Statesman's a Prancer, so tender in hoof,
He curvets, without fleetness or force;
In the heat of the field, when the race is in proof,
He gallantly bolts from the course!
With his canter and amble, he shuffles his way;
And no care of the sport seems to know;
Till he sees, as he hovers, what horse wins the day,
Then, hark forward! he shouts, Tally ho!
He curvets, without fleetness or force;
In the heat of the field, when the race is in proof,
He gallantly bolts from the course!
With his canter and amble, he shuffles his way;
And no care of the sport seems to know;
Till he sees, as he hovers, what horse wins the day,
Then, hark forward! he shouts, Tally ho!
The Farmer's a draught, the rich blood of whose veins,
Acts with vigour the duties, he owes;
He's a horse of sound bottom, and nurtures the plains
Where the harvest, that nurtures him, grows.
At his Country's command, on her hills or her fields,
Which her corn and her laurels bestow;
Firm in danger he moves, and in death never yields,
But, hark forward! he falls, Tally ho!
Acts with vigour the duties, he owes;
He's a horse of sound bottom, and nurtures the plains
Where the harvest, that nurtures him, grows.
At his Country's command, on her hills or her fields,
Which her corn and her laurels bestow;
Firm in danger he moves, and in death never yields,
But, hark forward! he falls, Tally ho!
Columbia is drawn by the Steeds of the sky,
The long journey of Empire to run;
May her coursers of light never scorch as they fly,
And their race be the age of the Sun!
Nor distanced by Time, nor in Fame e'er forgot,
May her track still be known by its glow;
Like Olympian dust, may it stream o'er the spot,
Where, hark forward; she rode, Tally ho!
The long journey of Empire to run;
May her coursers of light never scorch as they fly,
And their race be the age of the Sun!
Nor distanced by Time, nor in Fame e'er forgot,
May her track still be known by its glow;
Like Olympian dust, may it stream o'er the spot,
Where, hark forward; she rode, Tally ho!
| The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq | |