Page:Poems Cook.djvu/415

But alack and alas! he is soon off the grass,
With dark, stony defiles and dry deserts to pass;
And his step is so hard, and he raises such dust,
That full many are groaning, yet ride him they must.
On, on, through the gloomy morass of Despair—
Through the thorns of Remorse, and the yew-trees of Care;
Our limbs and our forehead are sore to the quick,
But still we must ride him, bruised, weary and sick:
Gentle hearts may be shaken and stirr'd till they bleed,
But on they must go with this Galloping Steed.

In the stone-hurdled churchyard he maketh no stop;
But the boldest perchance of his riders will drop:
They may cling to him closely, but cannot hold fast,
When he leaps o'er the grave-trench that Death opened last.
Betrapp'd and bedeck'd with his velvet and plumes,
A grand circle he runs in the show-place of tombs;
He carries a King—but he turneth the crypt,
And the Monarch that strode him so gaily hath slipp'd;
Yet on goes the Barb at the top of his speed,—
What's the fall of such things to this Galloping Steed?

Right over the pyramid walls does he bound;
In the Babylon deserts his hoof-prints are found;
He snorts in his pride—and the temples of light
Wear a shadowy mist like the coming of night.
On, on, and for ever—he turns not aside;
He recks not the road, be it narrow or wide;
In the paths of the city he maketh no stay;
Over Marathon's Plain he is stretching away.
Oh! show me a pedigree, find me a speed,
That shall rival the fame of this Galloping Steed.

He hath traversed the Past; through the Present he flies;
With the Future before him, right onward he hies;
He skims the broad waters, he treads the dark woods,
On, on, and for ever,—through forests and floods.

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