Bunker Hill and Other Poems | Page 7

of no use, and I 'm sorry I've written,--?I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf;?For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten,?And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself.
UNSATISFIED
"ONLY a housemaid!" She looked from the kitchen,--?Neat was the kitchen and tidy was she;?There at her window a sempstress sat stitching;?"Were I a sempstress, how happy I'd be!"
"Only a Queen!" She looked over the waters,--?Fair was her kingdom and mighty was she;?There sat an Empress, with Queens for her daughters;?Were I an Empress, how happy I'd be!"
Still the old frailty they all of them trip in!?Eve in her daughters is ever the same;?Give her all Eden, she sighs for a pippin;?Give her an Empire, she pines for a name!
May 8, 1876.
HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET
DEDICATED BY A CONTRIBUTOR TO THE COLLEGIAN,?1830, TO THE EDITORS OF THE HARVARD ADVOCATE, 1876.
'T WAS on the famous trotting-ground,?The betting men were gathered round?From far and near; the "cracks" were there?Whose deeds the sporting prints declare?The swift g. m., Old Hiram's nag,?The fleet s. h., Dan Pfeiffer's brag,?With these a third--and who is he?That stands beside his fast b. g.??Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name?So fills the nasal trump of fame.?There too stood many a noted steed?Of Messenger and Morgan breed;?Green horses also, not a few;?Unknown as yet what they could do;?And all the hacks that know so well?The scourgings of the Sunday swell.
Blue are the skies of opening day;?The bordering turf is green with May;?The sunshine's golden gleam is thrown?On sorrel, chestnut, bay, and roan;?The horses paw and prance and neigh,?Fillies and colts like kittens play,?And dance and toss their rippled manes?Shining and soft as silken skeins;?Wagons and gigs are ranged about,?And fashion flaunts her gay turn-out;?Here stands--each youthful Jehu's dream?The jointed tandem, ticklish team!?And there in ampler breadth expand?The splendors of the four-in-hand;?On faultless ties and glossy tiles?The lovely bonnets beam their smiles;?(The style's the man, so books avow;?The style's the woman, anyhow);?From flounces frothed with creamy lace?Peeps out the pug-dog's smutty face,?Or spaniel rolls his liquid eye,?Or stares the wiry pet of Skye,--?O woman, in your hours of ease?So shy with us, so free with these!
"Come on! I 'll bet you two to one?I 'll make him do it!" "Will you? Done!"
What was it who was bound to do??I did not hear and can't tell you,--?Pray listen till my story's through.
Scarce noticed, back behind the rest,?By cart and wagon rudely prest,?The parson's lean and bony bay?Stood harnessed in his one-horse shay--?Lent to his sexton for the day;?(A funeral--so the sexton said;?His mother's uncle's wife was dead.)
Like Lazarus bid to Dives' feast,?So looked the poor forlorn old beast;?His coat was rough, his tail was bare,?The gray was sprinkled in his hair;?Sportsmen and jockeys knew him not,?And yet they say he once could trot?Among the fleetest of the town,?Till something cracked and broke him down,--?The steed's, the statesman's, common lot!?"And are we then so soon forgot?"?Ah me! I doubt if one of you?Has ever heard the name "Old Blue,"?Whose fame through all this region rung?In those old days when I was young!
"Bring forth the horse!" Alas! he showed?Not like the one Mazeppa rode;?Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky-kneed,?The wreck of what was once a steed,?Lips thin, eyes hollow, stiff in joints;?Yet not without his knowing points.?The sexton laughing in his sleeve,?As if 't were all a make-believe,?Led forth the horse, and as he laughed?Unhitched the breeching from a shaft,?Unclasped the rusty belt beneath,?Drew forth the snaffle from his teeth,?Slipped off his head-stall, set him free?From strap and rein,--a sight to see!
So worn, so lean in every limb,?It can't be they are saddling him!?It is! his back the pig-skin strides?And flaps his lank, rheumatic sides;?With look of mingled scorn and mirth?They buckle round the saddle-girth;?With horsey wink and saucy toss?A youngster throws his leg across,?And so, his rider on his back,?They lead him, limping, to the track,?Far up behind the starting-point,?To limber out each stiffened joint.
As through the jeering crowd he past,?One pitying look Old Hiram cast;?"Go it, ye cripple, while ye can!"?Cried out unsentimental Dan;?"A Fast-Day dinner for the crows!"?Budd Doble's scoffing shout arose.
Slowly, as when the walking-beam?First feels the gathering head of steam,?With warning cough and threatening wheeze?The stiff old charger crooks his knees;?At first with cautious step sedate,?As if he dragged a coach of state?He's not a colt; he knows full well?That time is weight and sure to tell;?No horse so sturdy but he fears?The handicap of twenty years.
As through the throng on either hand?The old horse nears the judges' stand,?Beneath his jockey's feather-weight?He warms a little to his gait,?And now and then a step is tried?That hints of something like a stride.
"Go!"--Through his ear the summons stung?As if a battle-trump had rung;?The slumbering instincts long unstirred?Start at the old familiar word;?It thrills like flame through every limb,--?What mean his