Betwixt Two Seas Poems and Ballads (Written at Constantinople and Therapia). By Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] |
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THE DYING PACK-HORSE
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THE DYING PACK-HORSE
He must have thought it passing hard
(This life he did not ask to brave
And which he had no pleasure in),
E'en when, the foremost of the guard,
He pranced along, a willing slave,
With fly-flicker beneath his chin,
(This life he did not ask to brave
And which he had no pleasure in),
E'en when, the foremost of the guard,
He pranced along, a willing slave,
With fly-flicker beneath his chin,
And sabre dangling at his flank,
Bearing some stout Bimbashi's weight
Throughout the broiling August day,
And 'midst the martial din and clank
Beheld the Padishah, in state,
Drive to the Yildez mosque to pray!
Bearing some stout Bimbashi's weight
Throughout the broiling August day,
And 'midst the martial din and clank
Beheld the Padishah, in state,
Drive to the Yildez mosque to pray!
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Youth then was his; brave floating tail,
Bright flashing eye and crested mane;—
The will to dare, the heart to feel!
Yet what to him did this avail
Whose neck curved 'neath a Pasha's rein,
Whose sides heaved 'neath a Pasha's heel?
Bright flashing eye and crested mane;—
The will to dare, the heart to feel!
Yet what to him did this avail
Whose neck curved 'neath a Pasha's rein,
Whose sides heaved 'neath a Pasha's heel?
A roof, at least, above his head
When night set in, with serving-men
To fill up trough and water-can,
And taste of Freedom, when he sped
With lighten'd burden, now and then,
Across the breezy Okmeïdān.
When night set in, with serving-men
To fill up trough and water-can,
And taste of Freedom, when he sped
With lighten'd burden, now and then,
Across the breezy Okmeïdān.
Was this enough? God's ways are veil'd,
And men's are hard, and youth goes by,
For man and beast as tale that's told!
—A flash, a dream! . . . The light has paled,
The dream is dream'd, the fount is dry,
And man and beast, alike, wax old!
And men's are hard, and youth goes by,
For man and beast as tale that's told!
—A flash, a dream! . . . The light has paled,
The dream is dream'd, the fount is dry,
And man and beast, alike, wax old!
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In other worlds, man fondly deems
He wins reward for worthy deed,
And reaps the harvest sown in tears!
But which of his preceptors dreams
Of compensation to his steed
For all the earthly ills he bears?
He wins reward for worthy deed,
And reaps the harvest sown in tears!
But which of his preceptors dreams
Of compensation to his steed
For all the earthly ills he bears?
Behold, urged on by lash and goad,
Along the hard and stony ways,
The charger that has pass'd his prime!
A weary pack-horse, 'neath his load
Of broken stones, he dearly pays
The penalty he owes to Time!
Along the hard and stony ways,
The charger that has pass'd his prime!
A weary pack-horse, 'neath his load
Of broken stones, he dearly pays
The penalty he owes to Time!
For even when his work is done,
By day, by night, without, within,
He wears the galling wooden pack!
—At least it shades him from the sun,
And hides the bones that pierce his skin,
The gnawing sores that sear his back!
By day, by night, without, within,
He wears the galling wooden pack!
—At least it shades him from the sun,
And hides the bones that pierce his skin,
The gnawing sores that sear his back!
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And when relieved of this last weight,
With all its clasps and thongs that bind,
His labours near their end indeed!
See, there, abandoned to his fate,
He limps about, halt, lame, and blind,
The very spectre of a steed!
With all its clasps and thongs that bind,
His labours near their end indeed!
See, there, abandoned to his fate,
He limps about, halt, lame, and blind,
The very spectre of a steed!
The tyrant man, who held in thrall
Blood, bone, and muscle, for his use,
At last, has drain'd his life-springs dry!
Not one kick left in him! for all
His goading, cursing, and abuse,
So man has turn'd him out to die!
Blood, bone, and muscle, for his use,
At last, has drain'd his life-springs dry!
Not one kick left in him! for all
His goading, cursing, and abuse,
So man has turn'd him out to die!
So flat he lies upon the sward;
A mere white rag against the green!
The snarling mongrels, scenting food,
Round his last bed keep watch and ward;
Ah, scarce will one so poor and lean
Feed all that hungry multitude!
A mere white rag against the green!
The snarling mongrels, scenting food,
Round his last bed keep watch and ward;
Ah, scarce will one so poor and lean
Feed all that hungry multitude!
Buyukdéré, October 1897.
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