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195
RIDING THE HORSE TO MARKET.
Old miracles happen every day:
That nothing's new in earth or air
It needs no Solomon to say.
That nothing's new in earth or air
It needs no Solomon to say.
Wonderful to the foaling mare,
Was dropp'd a colt of marvelous mettle.
'T was common stock, both dam and sire.
His mane was like a flying fire
When in the unbridled fields he flew,
And some believed him wingéd, too.
The use of such a skittish creature
The village folk could hardly settle;
No rider dared his dangerous back
Save one, a youth, whose mate he seem'd,
Who shunn'd like him the dusty track
With something of a kindred nature—
A boy who did not well but dream'd,
A vagabond with half-shut eyes
Who would not sow in Paradise:
To this one as his rider bow'd
The flying-footed—humble, proud.
Was dropp'd a colt of marvelous mettle.
'T was common stock, both dam and sire.
His mane was like a flying fire
When in the unbridled fields he flew,
And some believed him wingéd, too.
The use of such a skittish creature
The village folk could hardly settle;
No rider dared his dangerous back
Save one, a youth, whose mate he seem'd,
Who shunn'd like him the dusty track
With something of a kindred nature—
A boy who did not well but dream'd,
A vagabond with half-shut eyes
Who would not sow in Paradise:
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The flying-footed—humble, proud.
'T was plain he was not fit to plow;
For lead or wheel horse on the road
In vain were all attempts to break him—
(To lead right willing he, in truth,
Where none could follow him!) Forsooth,
He balk'd and scorn'd the curse or goad!
“He's good to look at, that is clear,
But little profit anyhow”—
A wrinkle cross'd the farmer's brow—
“And so we'll find him rather dear.
He eats enough—Lord knows—we know!
Here! mount your run-away and go—
To-morrow to the market take him!”
For lead or wheel horse on the road
In vain were all attempts to break him—
(To lead right willing he, in truth,
Where none could follow him!) Forsooth,
He balk'd and scorn'd the curse or goad!
“He's good to look at, that is clear,
But little profit anyhow”—
A wrinkle cross'd the farmer's brow—
“And so we'll find him rather dear.
He eats enough—Lord knows—we know!
Here! mount your run-away and go—
To-morrow to the market take him!”
The saying, then the doing: rare
The splendors of the morning show'd,
When ready for the journey there
Stood horse and rider on the road.
“For how much shall I sell him?” said
The youth with pangs of dumb regret:
“As much,” the old man hot and red,
“As he will bring and you will get!”
The splendors of the morning show'd,
When ready for the journey there
Stood horse and rider on the road.
“For how much shall I sell him?” said
The youth with pangs of dumb regret:
“As much,” the old man hot and red,
“As he will bring and you will get!”
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With many a shying make-pretense,
As half in earnest, half in play,
At sliding nothings on the way,
With dainty prance and flame-like bound,
Aërial miles of flying fence,
The dust behind, the wind before,
Townward the horse his rider bore—
Within the air, upon the ground.
At length at day's most noisy heat
They enter'd in the market street;
Among the buyers soon they come,
When—strange that it should happen so,
But so it often happens—lo,
The crowd for praise or blame are dumb:
The merits of the matchless steed,
Unrecognized, have little heed.
At last one cried—“What have we here?
A beggar come to market, clear!”
“What sorry jade is that?” another.
And, strange!—how strange it seem'd, indeed!—
Behold, the wondrous-mettled steed
Has lost the spirit late so plain
In forehead, foot, and mien and mane;
His eyes are dull, his flank no more
Shines with the sunshine, as before;
As half in earnest, half in play,
At sliding nothings on the way,
With dainty prance and flame-like bound,
Aërial miles of flying fence,
The dust behind, the wind before,
Townward the horse his rider bore—
Within the air, upon the ground.
At length at day's most noisy heat
They enter'd in the market street;
Among the buyers soon they come,
When—strange that it should happen so,
But so it often happens—lo,
The crowd for praise or blame are dumb:
The merits of the matchless steed,
Unrecognized, have little heed.
At last one cried—“What have we here?
A beggar come to market, clear!”
“What sorry jade is that?” another.
And, strange!—how strange it seem'd, indeed!—
Behold, the wondrous-mettled steed
Has lost the spirit late so plain
In forehead, foot, and mien and mane;
His eyes are dull, his flank no more
Shines with the sunshine, as before;
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Their breath his nostrils lose or smother;
His ribs look out, his head is dropp'd,
And, standing lost in public gaze,
His heavenly pulses flutter, stopp'd.
“You want to sell?” a jockey says—
“I think, whatever be your price,
Your buyer makes the sacrifice.”
“What are his good points?—let us know them.”
“As for his oats—why, let him show them!”
“How many minutes make his mile?”
“I have a dray-horse just his mate!”
“Here, smith, is something for your doing:
What hoofs!—he needs a deal of shoeing!”
And one, a punner, passing late,
“This was the wingéd horse, I vow:
That he 's gone up—you see it now!”
Spoke with a self-perceiving smile.
“Speaking of wings,” another cries,
“His can't be seen, you see: perhaps
His ears, which can be seen, he flaps
And thinks him flying—from the flies!”
His ribs look out, his head is dropp'd,
And, standing lost in public gaze,
His heavenly pulses flutter, stopp'd.
“You want to sell?” a jockey says—
“I think, whatever be your price,
Your buyer makes the sacrifice.”
“What are his good points?—let us know them.”
“As for his oats—why, let him show them!”
“How many minutes make his mile?”
“I have a dray-horse just his mate!”
“Here, smith, is something for your doing:
What hoofs!—he needs a deal of shoeing!”
And one, a punner, passing late,
“This was the wingéd horse, I vow:
That he 's gone up—you see it now!”
Spoke with a self-perceiving smile.
“Speaking of wings,” another cries,
“His can't be seen, you see: perhaps
His ears, which can be seen, he flaps
And thinks him flying—from the flies!”
The jockey's scorn, the jeerer's aim,
Meanwhile, the horse and rider both,
In mutual weakness, mutual shame,
Hear—for they must, however loth.
Till—at the last, when, weary grown,
The crowd disperse and leave them there
Unbought within the mart alone—
Awaken'd into buoyant air
From something like a dream of fame,
A poet sees the sultry gleam
Of morning on the city flame,
Far-off, and that deliverance came
Thanks God: the Pegasus he strode
And to the dusty market rode
Was the vague Nothing of his dream!
Meanwhile, the horse and rider both,
In mutual weakness, mutual shame,
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Till—at the last, when, weary grown,
The crowd disperse and leave them there
Unbought within the mart alone—
Awaken'd into buoyant air
From something like a dream of fame,
A poet sees the sultry gleam
Of morning on the city flame,
Far-off, and that deliverance came
Thanks God: the Pegasus he strode
And to the dusty market rode
Was the vague Nothing of his dream!
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