The Fireside Encyclopædia of Poetry: Comprising the Best Poems of the Most ...

And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, | Hieing away to the home of her rest, Where she and her mate have scoop'd their nest,

and folly,

Dispose me to musing and dark melan

choly;

When my bosom is full and my thoughts are high,

And my soul is sick with the bondman's

sigh

Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view

In the pathless depths of the parch'd karroo.

Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and Afar in the desert I love to ride,

pride,

mane,

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side.

Away-away-in the wilderness vast

Where the white man's foot hath never pass'd,

And the quiver'd Coranna or Bechuan Hath rarely cross'd with his roving clan : A region of emptiness howling and drear, Which man hath abandon'd from famine and fear;

Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,

With the twilight bat from the yawning

stone;

Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes

root,

Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;

And the bitter melon for food and drink,
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's
brink;

A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with osier'd sides;
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears to refresh the aching eye;
But the barren earth and the burning
sky,

And the blank horizon, round and round,
Spread-void of living sight or sound.
And here, while the night-winds round me
sigh,

And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,

As I sit apart by the desert stone, Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, "A still small voice" comes through the wild

With wild hoof scouring the desolate (Like a father consoling his fretful child), plain; Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,

And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste

Speeds like a horseman who travels in Saying-Man is distant, but God is near!

haste,

THOMAS PRINGLE.

THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE.

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,

With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,

Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed;

I may not mount on thee again,-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Fret not with that impatient hoof,-snuff not the breezy wind,

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind:

The stranger hath thy bridle-rein,-thy master hath his gold,Fleet-limb'd and beautiful, farewell; thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold. Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam,

To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home;

Ah! rudely, then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:

And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.

Will they ill use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be,

Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd; so gentle, yet so free;

And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,—

Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return?

Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,

When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast

vanish'd from his view?

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy Thy bright form, for a moment, like the

corn and bread prepare,

The silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care!

The morning sun shall dawn again, but

never more with thee

Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be; Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er

the sandy plain

Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze,

the brilliant sun and sky, Thy master's home,—from all of these my exiled one must fly; Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud,

thy step become less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy

master's hand to meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright;

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;

And when I raise my dreaming arm to

check or cheer thy speed,

Then must I, starting, wake to feelthou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

false mirage appears;

Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with

weary step alone,

Where, with fleet step and joyous bound,

thou oft hast borne me on;

And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,

"It was here he bow'd his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!"

Whilst low to earth thy curving haunches
bend,

Thy sweepy tail involved in clouds of sand,
Erect in air thou rear'st thy front of pride,
And ring'st the plated harness on thy side!
But lo! what creature, goodly to the sight,

And to feel the swells of your wakening Dares thus bestride thee, chafing in thy

heart

When our sonorous bugles sound a charge;

At the scream of the shell and the roar of the drum

You feign to be frighten'd with roguish glance;

But up the green slopes where the bullets hum,

Coquettishly, darling, I've known you dance.

Your skin is satin, your nostrils red,

Your eyes are a bird's, or a loving girl's;

And from delicate fetlock to stately head
A throbbing vein-cordage around you
curls;

O joy of my heart! if you they slay,
For triumph or rout I little care,

For there isn't in all the wide valley to-
day

might;

Of portly stature and determined mien,
Whose dark eye dwells beneath a brow

serene,

And forward looks unmoved to scenes of death,

Who, smiling, gently strokes thee in thy wrath :

Whose right hand doth its flashing falchion wield?

A British soldier girded for the field!

JOANNA BAILLIE.

TO MY HORSE.

WITH a glancing eye and curving mane
He neighs and champs on the bridle-rein;
One spring, and his saddled back I press,
And ours is a common happiness!

'Tis the rapture of motion! a hurrying
cloud

When the loosen'd winds are breathing
loud:-
:-

Such a dear little bridle-wise, thorough- A shaft from the painted Indian's bow, bred mare!

CHARLES G. HALPINE.

THE HORSE AND HIS RIDER.
BRACED in the sinewy vigor of thy breed,
In pride of generous strength, thou stately
steed;

Thy broad chest to the battle's front is given,
Thy mane fair floating to the winds of

heaven;

A bird-in the pride of speed we go.

Dark thoughts that haunt me, where are ye now?

While the cleft air gratefully cools my
brow,

And the dizzy earth seems reeling by,
And naught is at rest but the arching sky;
And the tramp of my steed, so swift and

strong,

Is dearer than fame and sweeter than song!

There is life in the breeze as we hasten By the might of the sounding hoof to win Beauty without and joy within;

on;

With each bound some care of earth has Beauty else to my eyes unseen,

gone,

And the languid pulse begins to play,
And the night of my soul is turn'd to day;
A richer verdure the earth o'erspreads,
Sparkles the streamlet more bright in the
meads;

And its voice to the flowers that bend above

Is soft as the whisper of early love; With fragrance spring flowers have burden'd the air,

And the blue-bird and robin are twittering clear.

Lovely tokens of gladness, I mark'd ye not

When last I roam'd o'er this self-same spot.

Ah! then the deep shadows of sorrow's mien

Fell, like a blight, on the happy scene;
And Nature, with all her love and grace,
In the depths of the spirit could find no
place.

So the vex'd breast of the mountain-lake,
When wind and rain mad revelry make,
Turbid and gloomy, and wildly tost,
Retain no trace of the beauty lost.
But when through the moist air, bright
and warm,

The sun looks down with his golden charm,

And clouds have fled, and the wind is lull,

Oh! then the changed lake, how beautiful!

The glistening trees, in their shady ranks, And the ewe with its lamb along the banks,

And joy, that then had a stranger been.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

THE TIGER.

TIGER! tiger! burning bright,
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies Burn'd the ardor of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand forged thy dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil; what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger! tiger! burning bright,
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

WILLIAM BLAKE.

THE HUNTER of the PRAIRIES.

And the kingfisher perch'd on the with- AY, this is freedom !-these pure skies Were never stain'd with village smoke; And the pure blue heaven all pictured The fragrant wind, that through them

er'd bough,

For here the fair savannas know
No barriers in the bloomy grass;
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,
Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.
In pastures, measureless as air,

The bison is my noble game;
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear
The branches, falls before my aim.

Mine are the river-fowl that scream

From the long stripe of waving sedge; The bear that marks my weapon's gleam Hides vainly in the forest's edge; In vain the she-wolf stands at bay; The brinded catamount, that lies High in the boughs to watch his prey, Even in the act of springing dies.

With what free growth the elm and plane Fling their huge arms across my way, Gray, old, and cumber'd with a train

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! Free stray the lucid streams, and find

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades;

Free spring the flowers that scent the wind

Where never scythe has swept the glades.

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere
The heavy herbage of the ground,
Gathers his annual harvest here,

With roaring like the battle's sound, And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky.
I meet the flames with flames again,
And at my door they cower and die.

Here, from dim woods, the aged Past
Speaks solemnly; and I behold

The boundless Future in the vast

And lonely river, seaward roll'd. Who feeds its founts with rain and dew? Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, And trains the bordering vines whose blue Bright clusters tempt me as I pass?

Broad are these streams-my steed obeys, Plunges, and bears me through the tide: Wide are these woods-I thread the maze Of giant stems, nor ask a guide.

I hunt till day's last glimmer dies

O'er woody vale and grassy height; And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

FOLDING THE FLOCKS.
SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up; for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dewdrops, how they kiss
Every little flower that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a string of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from under ground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapors, fly apace,
And hover o'er the smiling face
Of these pastures; where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom.
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;

And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain and, ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty, thievish fox
Break upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourself from these,
Be not too secure in ease;

So shall you good shepherds prove,
And deserve your master's love.
Now, good-night! may sweetest slumbers
And soft silence fall in numbers
On your eyelids. So farewell:
Thus I end my evening knell.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

THE RETIREMENT.

FAREWELL, thou busy world, and may We never meet again;

Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray, And do more good in one short day Than he who his whole age out-wears Upon the most conspicuous theatres, Where naught but vanity and vice appears.

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