 | The Triangular Society |  |
157
A CAVALRY PRIVATE.
In the green park the grass grows fair and tall,
The herbage drips with dew,
And from the untrodden places by the wall,
The clover lifts pink promise. Seeing all,
A starving horse looks through,—
The herbage drips with dew,
And from the untrodden places by the wall,
The clover lifts pink promise. Seeing all,
A starving horse looks through,—
A poor gaunt animal, sharp-ribbed and lean,
A picture of distress—
On his thin sides are marks where blows have been,
And on his shrunken shoulder may be seen
The branded signs—“U. S.”
A picture of distress—
On his thin sides are marks where blows have been,
And on his shrunken shoulder may be seen
The branded signs—“U. S.”
Sadly he thinks of other summer-tides,
When, by the wide barn-doors,
The fearless children patted his sleek sides,
And chattering merrily of future rides
Fed him with apple-cores.
When, by the wide barn-doors,
The fearless children patted his sleek sides,
And chattering merrily of future rides
Fed him with apple-cores.
No high ambition lured his thoughts away,
No dreams of trotting-parks;
He only heard the blithesome children say—
“Next winter he'll be harnessed in the sleigh,
And then, oh, then, what larks!”
No dreams of trotting-parks;
He only heard the blithesome children say—
“Next winter he'll be harnessed in the sleigh,
And then, oh, then, what larks!”
158
His nerves were living steel;—his frame replete
With lithesomeness and grace;—
His bright neck “clothed with thunder,” and his feet—
The very tempest, sweeping fierce and fleet,
Could scarce outstrip his pace.
With lithesomeness and grace;—
His bright neck “clothed with thunder,” and his feet—
The very tempest, sweeping fierce and fleet,
Could scarce outstrip his pace.
Green were the pastures where he used to browse,
In youth's elysian prime,—
He nipped the pink buds from the apple-boughs
Shading some pleasant farm-yard, where the cows
Gathered at milking-time,—
In youth's elysian prime,—
He nipped the pink buds from the apple-boughs
Shading some pleasant farm-yard, where the cows
Gathered at milking-time,—
Lowing responsive to the plaintive bleat
Of calves, which waited late,
Tethered in tender grass, unmown and sweet,
And clover which they had not learned to eat,
Inside the orchard gate—
Of calves, which waited late,
Tethered in tender grass, unmown and sweet,
And clover which they had not learned to eat,
Inside the orchard gate—
Each pulling wildly at the fettering rope,
Stretching his soft neck far,
And calling with a sort of piteous hope,
For the fair milkmaid's hand the gate to ope,
And give him his mamma.
Stretching his soft neck far,
And calling with a sort of piteous hope,
For the fair milkmaid's hand the gate to ope,
And give him his mamma.
There on a low bough hung the milking-stool—
The throne of innocence;—
There, when the summer day grew dusk and cool,
The hens repaired, and went to roost by rule,
In rows along the fence.
The throne of innocence;—
There, when the summer day grew dusk and cool,
The hens repaired, and went to roost by rule,
In rows along the fence.
Oh, happiness! but on the saddest day
That ever gloomed the skies,
Some heartless Quarter Master's employé
Espied him as he chewed the fragrant hay,
And said—“Behold a prize!
That ever gloomed the skies,
Some heartless Quarter Master's employé
Espied him as he chewed the fragrant hay,
And said—“Behold a prize!
159
“This animal is sound in wind and limb,
With every nerve alive—
Our Uncle Samuel hath need of him;
I'll give you, as he seems in extra trim,
One hundred twenty-five.”
With every nerve alive—
Our Uncle Samuel hath need of him;
I'll give you, as he seems in extra trim,
One hundred twenty-five.”
Wherefore he bought and took the horse along,
To come alas, no more—
Leaving the children in a weeping throng,
Deploring audibly the bitter wrong,
Grouped round the stable door.
To come alas, no more—
Leaving the children in a weeping throng,
Deploring audibly the bitter wrong,
Grouped round the stable door.
Gone with his last sweet wisp of home-made hay
Depending from his mouth—
Unconscious, as he walks the grassy way,
How soon his feet will bruise in fiercest fray,
The red fields of the South.
Depending from his mouth—
Unconscious, as he walks the grassy way,
How soon his feet will bruise in fiercest fray,
The red fields of the South.
Gone with the clover tangled in his mane,—
To plough through Southern mud;
To make sharp hoof-prints on the battle-plain,
To trample madly on the bleeding slain,
And bathe his feet in blood.
To plough through Southern mud;
To make sharp hoof-prints on the battle-plain,
To trample madly on the bleeding slain,
And bathe his feet in blood.
But what a change—and what a loss! oh, shame!
What has he gained therefor?
Since in the heyday of his youth, he came,
His proud head high, his nostrils breathing flame,
Down to the seat of war?
What has he gained therefor?
Since in the heyday of his youth, he came,
His proud head high, his nostrils breathing flame,
Down to the seat of war?
His bright, expressive eyes have lost their fire,
His humbled head hangs low;
His fair and nervous limbs have learned to tire
In wading wearily through swamps and mire,
Goaded by spur and blow.
His humbled head hangs low;
His fair and nervous limbs have learned to tire
In wading wearily through swamps and mire,
Goaded by spur and blow.
160
Oh, battered limbs—oh, dim and hollow eyes,
Oh, gaunt and wasted frame!
Youth, loved and honored—age, which all despise—
Is this the picture held before the eyes
Of military fame?
Oh, gaunt and wasted frame!
Youth, loved and honored—age, which all despise—
Is this the picture held before the eyes
Of military fame?
“Republics are ungrateful”; when, oh, when,
Has this been proved a lie?
Horses are heroes, too, as well as men—
Why are they used, abused, neglected—then
Turned in the street to die?
Has this been proved a lie?
Horses are heroes, too, as well as men—
Why are they used, abused, neglected—then
Turned in the street to die?
The grass waves inaccessible, though near—
Mocking his longing gaze—
And from the fountain-basin he can hear
The tinkling water-drops plash cool and clear,
Misting in rainbow sprays.
Mocking his longing gaze—
And from the fountain-basin he can hear
The tinkling water-drops plash cool and clear,
Misting in rainbow sprays.
Soon I shall see—when breaks his patient heart—
His gaunt form carried hence,
With rigid limbs aimed sky-ward, in a cart,
To some grim burial, from the town apart,
At government expense!
His gaunt form carried hence,
With rigid limbs aimed sky-ward, in a cart,
To some grim burial, from the town apart,
At government expense!
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