 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
My horse, in the cloud, hung his head and crawled down;
I thinking if Tartarus bottomed the town,
Could only imagine what his thoughts could be,—
His progress was more than his master could see.
I could hear his feet fall, and could feel a slight jog,
But it seemed like a treadmill revolved in the fog,
Or more like a horse-boat a-ferrying o'er,
For a swelled mountain stream filled my ears with its roar;
And Fancy began my location to fix:
Old Charon a horse-boat over the styx.
Perhaps “Pomp” was thinking, if horses e'er think,
His master knew best where was provant and drink,
And trusted his rider's superior skill.
As men often trust to a demagogue's will,
And think that their leader knows what he's about,
When his course is too blind for their eyes to make out.
I thinking if Tartarus bottomed the town,
Could only imagine what his thoughts could be,—
His progress was more than his master could see.
I could hear his feet fall, and could feel a slight jog,
But it seemed like a treadmill revolved in the fog,
Or more like a horse-boat a-ferrying o'er,
For a swelled mountain stream filled my ears with its roar;
And Fancy began my location to fix:
Old Charon a horse-boat over the styx.
Perhaps “Pomp” was thinking, if horses e'er think,
His master knew best where was provant and drink,
And trusted his rider's superior skill.
As men often trust to a demagogue's will,
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When his course is too blind for their eyes to make out.
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |