and no more;
Snort! "Silvertail", snort! when you've seen as much danger
As I have, you won't mind the rats in the straw.

* * * * *

Our gallant old colonel came limping and halting,
The day before yesterday, into my stall;
Oh! light to the saddle I've once seen him vaulting,
In full marching order, steel broadsword and all.

And now his left leg than his right is made shorter
Three inches, he stoops, and his chest is unsound;
He spoke to me gently, and patted my quarter,
I laid my ears back, and look'd playfully round.

For that word kindly meant, that caress kindly given,
I thank'd him, though dumb, but my cheerfulness fled;
More sadness I drew from the face of the living
Than years back I did from the face of the dead.

For the dead face, upturn'd, tranquil, joyous, and fearless,
Look'd straight from green sod to blue fathomless sky
With a smile; but the living face, gloomy and tearless,
And haggard and harass'd, look'd down with a sigh.

Did he think on the first time he kiss'd Lady Mary?
On the morning he wing'd Horace Greville the beau?
On the winner he steer'd in the grand military?
On the charge that he headed twelve long years ago?

Did he think on each fresh year, of fresh grief the herald?
On lids that are sunken, and locks that are grey?
On Alice, who bolted with Brian Fitzgerald?
On Rupert, his first-born, dishonour'd by "play"?

On Louey, his darling, who sleeps 'neath the cypress,
That shades her and one whose last breath gave her life?
I saw those strong fingers hard over each eye press--
Oh! the dead rest in peace when the quick toil in strife!

* * * * *

Scoff, man! egotistical, proud, unobservant,
Since I with man's grief dare to sympathise thus;
Why scoff?--fellow-creature I am, fellow-servant
Of God, can man fathom God's dealings with us?

The wide gulf that parts us may yet be no wider
Than that which parts you from some being more blest;
And there may be more links 'twixt the horse and his rider
Than ever your shallow philosophy guess'd.

You are proud of your power, and vain of your courage,
And your blood, Anglo-Saxon, or Norman, or Celt;
Though your gifts you extol, and our gifts you disparage,
Your perils, your pleasures, your sorrows we've felt.

We, too, sprung from mares of the p