THE BLOOD HORSE.
GAMARRA is a dainty steed,
Strong, black, and of a noble breed;
Full of fire and full of bone,
With all his line of fathers known :
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,
But blown abroad by the pride within ;
His mane is like a river flowing,
And his eyes like embers glowing
In the darkness of the night,
And his pace as swift as light:
Look!-how round his straining throat
Grace and shifting beauty float ;
Sinewy strength is on his reins,
And the red blood gallops through his veins :
Richer, redder never ran
Through the boasting heart of man.
He can trace his lineage higher
Than the Bourbon dare aspire,—
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
Or O'Brien's blood itself!
He-who hath no peer-was born
Here, upon a red March morn ;
But his famous fathers, dead,
Were Arabs all, and Arab bred:
And the last of that great line
Seem'd as of a race divine!
And yet he was but friend to one
Who fed him at the set of sun,
By some lone fountain fringed with green:
With him, a roving Bedouin,
He lived (none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day)—
And died untamed upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands !
KING Death was a rare old fellow !
He sat where no sun could shine;
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And pour'd out his coal-black wine.
Hurrah for the coal-black wine!
There came to him many a maiden,
Whose eyes had forgot to shine;
And widows, with grief o'erladen,
For a draught of his sleepy wine.
Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!
The scholar left all his learning,—
The poet his fancied woes;
And the beauty her bloom returning,
Like life to the fading rose.
Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!
All came to the royal old fellow,
Who laugh'd till his eyes dropp'd brine,
As he gave them his hand so yellow,
And pledged them in death's black wine.
Hurrah! hurrah!
Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!
LET the moaning music die,
Let the hope-deceived fly,
Turn'd by strong neglect to pain!
Let the mind desert the brain,
Leaving all to dark decay,
Like a lump of idle clay !
They are gone who loved and-died,—
The once lover and his bride;
Therefore we our sorrow weave
Into songs ;-yet wherefore grieve?
Though they sleep an endless sleep,
Why should we despair and weep?
They are gone together:
They are safe from wind and weather,
Lightning and the drowning rain,
And the hell of earthly pain.
They are dead; or if they live,
There is one who can forgive,
Though a thousand errors ran
Through the fond, false heart of man.
Let the moaning music perish!
Wherefore should we strive to cherish
Sorrow like the desert rain?
Though we weep, we weep in vain!
They are gone together,
Haply to the summer shores,-
Where the bright and cloudless weather
Shineth, and for ever pours
Music with the flooding light,
And the night doth chase the day,
And the morn doth chase the night,
Like a starry fawn away!
They are gone-where pleasure reigns.
Sinless on the golden plains,
Far above the scathing thunder,
Far above the storms and jars
Of earth, and live delighted under
The bright silence of the stars!
Therefore let the music die,-
Thoughtless hope and sorrow fly:
They are happy,-happier than
We, who in the mask of man,
Pour our unavailing tears
Over Beauty's number'd years!
AWAKE!-the starry midnight hour
Hangs charm'd, and pauseth in its flight;
In its own sweetness sleeps the flower,
And the doves lie hush'd in deep delight!
Awake! awake!
Look forth, my love, for love's sweet sake!
Awake!-soft dews will soon arise
From daisied mead, and thorny brake; Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, And like the tender morning break! Awake! awake!
Dawn forth, my love, for love's sweet sake!
Awake!-within the musk-rose bower
I watch, pale flower of love, for thee; Ah, come and show the starry hour
What wealth of love thou hid'st from me! Awake! awake!
Shew all thy love, for love's sweet sake!
Awake!-ne'er heed, though listening night
Steal music from thy silver voice;
Uncloud thy beauty rare and bright,
And bid the world and me rejoice!
Awake! awake!
She comes, at last, for love's sweet sake!
WE are born; we laugh, we weep,
We love, we droop, we die!
Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep?
Why do we live, or die?
Who knows that secret deep?
Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eye?
Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do our fond hearts cling
To things that die?
We toil-through pain and wrong;
We fight, and fly;
We love, we lose-and then, ere long,
Stone-dead we lie.
O life! is all thy song
"Endure and-die ?"
TO A WOUNDED SINGING BIRD.
POOR singer! hath the fowler's gun,
Or the sharp winter done thee harm?
We'll lay thee gently in the sun,
And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm; Perhaps some human kindness still
May make amends for human ill.
We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well,
And save thee from the winter wild,
Till summer fall on field and fell,
And thou shalt be our feather'd child ;
And tell us all thy pain and wrong,
When thou canst speak again in song.
Fear not, nor tremble, little bird,
We'll use thee kindly now;
And sure there's in a friendly word
An accent even THOU shouldst know;
For kindness which the heart doth teach
Disdaineth all peculiar speech:
'Tis common to the bird and brute,
To fallen man, to angel bright;
And sweeter 'tis than lonely lute
Heard in the air at night;
Divine and universal tongue,
Whether by bird or spirit sung!
But, hark! is that a sound we hear
Come chirping from its throat,
Faint, short-but weak-and very clear,
And like a little grateful note?
Another? ha! look where it lies,-
It shivers, gasps,—is still,-it dies!
'Tis dead! 'tis dead! and all our care
Is useless. Now, in vain
The mother's woe doth pierce the air,
Calling her nestling bird again!
All's vain; the singer's heart is cold,
Its eye is dim,-its fortune told!
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