260 HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT.

With resolute shoulders, each butting away

The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray ;

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back,
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance,
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned, and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Loos and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-tower sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!

"How they'll greet us!" and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and crop over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer;

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round,

As I sate with his head twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent.

CI

R. BROWNING.

THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by

With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery

I

eye;

Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed,— may not mount on thee again—thou'rt sold, my Arab steed! Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind, The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;

The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold,— Fleet limbed and beautiful! farewell! thou'rt sold, my steed— thou'rt sold!

Farewell! those free untired limbs full many a mile must

roam,

To reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home;

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bread pre

pare;

The silky mane I braided once must be another's care!

The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to

be:

Evening shall darken on the earth; and o'er the sandy plain Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,

Thy master's home-from all of these, my exiled one must fly; Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet,

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright, Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light: And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy

speed,

Then must I starting wake, to feel-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:

And the rich blood that is in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be― Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free; And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,

Can the hand, which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?

Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do, When thou who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his

view?

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,

Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears. Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone, Where with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne

me on:

And, sitting down by the green well, I'll pause and sadly think, “It was here he bowed his glossy neck, when last I saw him drink!"

When last I saw thee drink!—away! the fevered dream is o'er

I could not live a day, and know, that we should meet no

more;

They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strongThey tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.

Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert

sold?

"Tis false-'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their

gold!

Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains; Away! who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for his pains! HON. MRS. NORTON.

Inscribed on many a learned page,
In mystic characters and sage,
Long time my First has stood;
And though its golden age be past,
In wooden walls it yet may last,
Till clothed in flesh and blood.

My Second is a glorious prize

For all who love their wondering eyes
With curious sights to pamper;
But 'tis a sight-which should they meet,
All improviso in the street;

Ye Gods! how would they scamper

My whole's a sort of wandering throne,
To woman limited alone,

!