Poems (Cook)/The Galloping Steed
THE GALLOPING STEED.
There's a courser we ne'er have been able to rein—
He careers o'er the mountain, he travels the main—
He's Eternity's Arab—he trieth his pace
With the worlds in their orbits, and winneth the race.
Oh! a charger of mettle I warrant is he,
That will weary his riders, whoe'er they may be;
And we all of us mount, and he bears us along,
Without hearing our check-word or feeling our thong;
No will does he heed, and no rest does he need;
Oh a brave Iron Grey is this Galloping Steed.
He careers o'er the mountain, he travels the main—
He's Eternity's Arab—he trieth his pace
With the worlds in their orbits, and winneth the race.
Oh! a charger of mettle I warrant is he,
That will weary his riders, whoe'er they may be;
And we all of us mount, and he bears us along,
Without hearing our check-word or feeling our thong;
No will does he heed, and no rest does he need;
Oh a brave Iron Grey is this Galloping Steed.
On, on, and for ever, for ever he goes—
Where his halting-place is, not the wisest one knows;
He waits not to drink at the Joy-rippled rill;
He lags not to breathe up the Pain-furrow'd hill.
Right pleasant, forsooth, is our place on his back,
When he bounds in the sun on Life's flowery track;—
When his musical hoofs press the green moss of Hope,
And he tramples the pansy on Love's fairy slope;
Oh, the journeying then is right pleasant indeed,
As we laugh in our strength on this Galloping Steed.
Where his halting-place is, not the wisest one knows;
He waits not to drink at the Joy-rippled rill;
He lags not to breathe up the Pain-furrow'd hill.
Right pleasant, forsooth, is our place on his back,
When he bounds in the sun on Life's flowery track;—
When his musical hoofs press the green moss of Hope,
And he tramples the pansy on Love's fairy slope;
Oh, the journeying then is right pleasant indeed,
As we laugh in our strength on this Galloping Steed.
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.
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?
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.
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.
Full many among us are riding him now,
All tired and gasping, with sweat on our brow;
We may suffer and writhe, but 'tis ever in vain,
So let's sit on him bravely and scorn to complain;
For we know there's a goal and a glorious meed
For the riders of Time—that old Galloping Steed.
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.
Full many among us are riding him now,
All tired and gasping, with sweat on our brow;
We may suffer and writhe, but 'tis ever in vain,
So let's sit on him bravely and scorn to complain;
For we know there's a goal and a glorious meed
For the riders of Time—that old Galloping Steed.