Bunker Hill and Other Poems | Page 8

twenty years to him??The savage blow his rider dealt?Fell on his hollow flanks unfelt;?The spur that pricked his staring hide?Unheeded tore his bleeding side;?Alike to him are spur and rein,--?He steps a five-year-old again!
Before the quarter pole was past,?Old Hiram said, "He's going fast."?Long ere the quarter was a half,?The chuckling crowd had ceased to laugh;?Tighter his frightened jockey clung?As in a mighty stride he swung,?The gravel flying in his track,?His neck stretched out, his ears laid back,?His tail extended all the while?Behind him like a rat-tail file!?Off went a shoe,--away it spun,?Shot like a bullet from a gun;
The quaking jockey shapes a prayer?From scraps of oaths he used to swear;?He drops his whip, he drops his rein,?He clutches fiercely for a mane;?He'll lose his hold--he sways and reels--?He'll slide beneath those trampling heels!?The knees of many a horseman quake,?The flowers on many a bonnet shake,?And shouts arise from left and right,?"Stick on! Stick on!" "Hould tight! Hould tight!"?"Cling round his neck and don't let go--?"That pace can't hold--there! steady! whoa!"?But like the sable steed that bore?The spectral lover of Lenore,?His nostrils snorting foam and fire,?No stretch his bony limbs can tire;?And now the stand he rushes by,?And "Stop him!--stop him!" is the cry.?Stand back! he 's only just begun--?He's having out three heats in one!
"Don't rush in front! he'll smash your brains;?But follow up and grab the reins!"?Old Hiram spoke. Dan Pfeiffer heard,?And sprang impatient at the word;?Budd Doble started on his bay,?Old Hiram followed on his gray,?And off they spring, and round they go,?The fast ones doing "all they know."?Look! twice they follow at his heels,?As round the circling course he wheels,?And whirls with him that clinging boy?Like Hector round the walls of Troy;?Still on, and on, the third time round?They're tailing off! they're losing ground!?Budd Doble's nag begins to fail!?Dan Pfeiffer's sorrel whisks his tail!?And see! in spite of whip and shout,?Old Hiram's mare is giving out!?Now for the finish! at the turn,?The old horse--all the rest astern--?Comes swinging in, with easy trot;?By Jove! he's distanced all the lot!
That trot no mortal could explain;?Some said, "Old Dutchman come again!"?Some took his time,--at least they tried,?But what it was could none decide;?One said he couldn't understand?What happened to his second hand;?One said 2.10; that could n't be--?More like two twenty-two or three;?Old Hiram settled it at last;?"The time was two--too dee-vel-ish fast!"
The parson's horse had won the bet;?It cost him something of a sweat;?Back in the one-horse shay he went;?The parson wondered what it meant,?And murmured, with a mild surprise?And pleasant twinkle of the eyes,?That funeral must have been a trick,?Or corpses drive at double-quick;?I should n't wonder, I declare,?If brother--Jehu--made the prayer!
And this is all I have to say?About that tough old trotting bay,?Huddup! Huddup! G'lang! Good day!?Moral for which this tale is told?A horse can trot, for all he 's old.
AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH"
"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;?When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall."
FULL sevenscore years our city's pride--?The comely Southern spire--?Has cast its shadow, and defied?The storm, the foe, the fire;?Sad is the sight our eyes behold;?Woe to the three-hilled town,?When through the land the tale is told--?"The brave 'Old South' is down!"
Let darkness blot the starless dawn?That hears our children tell,?"Here rose the walls, now wrecked and gone,?Our fathers loved so well;?Here, while his brethren stood aloof,?The herald's blast was blown?That shook St. Stephen's pillared roof?And rocked King George's throne!
"The home-bound wanderer of the main?Looked from his deck afar,?To where the gilded, glittering vane?Shone like the evening star,?And pilgrim feet from every clime?The floor with reverence trod,?Where holy memories made sublime?The shrine of Freedom's God!"
The darkened skies, alas! have seen?Our monarch tree laid low,?And spread in ruins o'er the green,?But Nature struck the blow;?No scheming thrift its downfall planned,?It felt no edge of steel,?No soulless hireling raised his hand?The deadly stroke to deal.
In bridal garlands, pale and mute,?Still pleads the storied tower;?These are the blossoms, but the fruit?Awaits the golden shower;?The spire still greets the morning sun,--?Say, shall it stand or fall??Help, ere the spoiler has begun!?Help, each, and God help all!
THE FIRST FAN
READ AT A MEETING OF THE BOSTON BRIC-A-BRAC?CLUB, FEBRUARY 21, 1877
WHEN rose the cry "Great Pan is dead!"?And Jove's high palace closed its portal,?The fallen gods, before they fled,?Sold out their frippery to a mortal.
"To whom?" you ask. I ask of you.?The answer hardly needs suggestion;?Of course it was the Wandering Jew,--?How could you put me such a question?
A purple robe, a little worn,?The Thunderer deigned himself to offer;?The bearded wanderer laughed in scorn,--?You know he always was a scoffer.
"Vife shillins! 't is a monstrous price;?Say two and six and further talk shun."?"Take it," cried Jove; "we can't be nice,--?'T would fetch twice that at Leonard's auction."
The ice was broken; up they came,?All sharp for bargains, god