Voices for the Speechless Part 11

SYMPATHY FOR HORSE AND HOUND.

Yet pity for a horse o'erdriven, And love in which my hound has part, Can hang no weight upon my heart, In its a.s.sumptions up to heaven:

And I am so much more than these As thou, perchance, art more than I, And yet I would spare them sympathy, And I would set their pains at ease.

TENNYSON'S _In Memoriam._

THE BLOOD HORSE.

Gamarra is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a n.o.ble 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 s.h.i.+ning beauty float!

Sinewy strength is in 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 Arabs bred, And the last of that great line Trod like one 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!

BARRY CORNWALL.

THE CID AND BAVIECA.

The king looked on him kindly, as on a va.s.sal true; Then to the king Ruy Diaz spake, after reverence due, "O king! the thing is shameful, that any man beside The liege lord of Castile himself, should Bavieca ride.

"For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bring So good as he, and certes, the best befits my king, But, that you may behold him, and know him to the core, I'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the Moor."

With that the Cid, clad as he was, in mantle furred and wide, On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side; And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career, Streamed like a pennon on the wind, Ruy Diaz' minivere.

And all that saw them praised them,--they lauded man and horse, As matched well, and rivals for gallantry and force; Ne'er had they looked on hors.e.m.e.n might to this knight come near, Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.

Thus, to and fro a-rus.h.i.+ng, the fierce and furious steed, He snapped in twain his nether rein: "G.o.d pity now the Cid!

G.o.d pity Diaz!" cried the lords,--but when they looked again, They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him with the fragment of his rein; They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm, Like a true lord commanding, and obeyed as by a lamb.

And so he led him foaming and panting to the king, But, "No," said Don Alphonso, "it were a shameful thing, That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid By any mortal but Bivar,--mount, mount again, my Cid!"

LOCKHART'S _Spanish Ballads._

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.

Word was brought to the Danish king, (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (Oh! ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl; And his Rose of the Isles is dying.

Thirty n.o.bles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) Each one mounted a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; (Oh! ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst: But ride as they would, the king rode first; For his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

His n.o.bles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying, The king looked back at that faithful child: Wan was the face that answering smiled.

They pa.s.sed the drawbridge with clattering din: Then he dropped; and only the king rode in Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence!) No answer came, but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing.

The castle portal stood grimly wide; None welcomed the king from that weary ride; For, dead in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying.

The panting steed with a drooping crest Stood weary.

The king returned from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast; And that dumb companion eying, The tears gushed forth, which he strove to check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck: "O steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain, To the halls where my love lay dying!"

CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON.

Go forth under the open sky and list To Nature's teachings.

BRYANT.

DO YOU KNOW?

"Yesterday we buried my pretty brown mare under the wild-cherry tree. End of poor Bess."

When a human being dies, Seeming scarce so good or wise, Scarce so high in scale of mind As the horse he leaves behind, "Lo," we cry, "the fleeting spirit Doth a newer garb inherit; Through eternity doth soar, Growing, greatening, evermore."

But our beautiful dumb creatures Yield their gentle, generous natures, With their mute, appealing eyes, Haunted by earth's mysteries, Wistfully upon us cast, Loving, trusting, to the last; And we arrogantly say, "They have had their little day; Nothing of them but was clay."

Has all perished? Was no mind In that graceful form enshrined?

Can the love that filled those eyes With most eloquent replies, When the glossy head close pressing, Grateful met your hand's caressing; Can the mute intelligence, Baffling oft our human sense With strange wisdom, buried be "Under the wild-cherry tree?"

Are these elements that spring In a daisy's blossoming, Or in long dark gra.s.ses wave Plume-like o'er your favorite's grave?

Can they live in us, and fade In all else that G.o.d has made!

Is there aught of harm believing That, some newer form receiving, They may find a wider sphere, Live a larger life than here?

That the meek, appealing eyes, Haunted by strange mysteries, Find a more extended field, To new destinies unsealed; Or that in the ripened prime Of some far-off summer time, Ranging that unknown domain, We may find our pets again?

HELEN BARRON BOSTWICK.

THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE.

A Bedouin of true honor, good Nebar, Possessed a horse whose fame was spread afar; No other horse was half so proud and strong; His feet were like the north wind swept along; In his curved neck, and in his flas.h.i.+ng eye, You saw the harbingers of victory.

So, many came to Nebar day by day, And longed to take his n.o.ble horse away; Large sums they offered, and with grace besought.

But, all in vain; the horse could not be bought.

With these came Daher, of another tribe, To see if he might not the owner bribe; Yet purposeless,--no money, skill, nor breath Could part the owner from his horse till death.

Then Daher, who was subtle, mean, and sly, Concluded, next, some stratagem to try; So, clothed in rags, and masked in form and face, He as a beggar walked with limping pace, And, meeting Nebar with the horse one day, He fell, and prostrate on the desert lay.

The ruse succeeded; for, when Nebar found A helpless man in sorrow on the ground, He took him up, and on the n.o.ble steed Gave him a place; but what a thankless deed!