304 TO iMY HORSES. 



ST. CATHERINE'S MARE AND COLT. 



To the Editor of the Analyst. 



Sir, — In your last number is a notice of the marks impressed upon the blocks of 

 sandstone found in Sapey brook, and which you say the rustics allege are indentations 

 made by a mare and colt stolen from St. Catherine, when she resided at Sapey, 

 •which said mare and colt being conducted down the bed of the brook by the robbers, 

 to avoid detection, St. Catherine prayed they might leave their marks upon the 

 stones whereon they trod. 



There are now several of these blocks in the museum of the Natural History 

 Society, which have been examined by several scientific persons ; one of the blocks 

 has been sawn asunder through one of these circular depressions, at the desire of 

 Professor Buckland, who afterwards inspected the stone, but did not, I believe, offer 

 any conjecture upon the causes of these curious marks. On examining the same 

 block the other day, in company with Mr. Lees, I found that the causes of these 

 depressions were to be attributed to the existence or infiltration of a red marly earth 

 in the sandstone at these particular spots, which being more easily worn away by 

 friction, has been scooped out by the water of the brook. This is very evident at 

 the spot where the block now in the museum has been divided, and it is easy to see 

 how deep the depression would have extended had it not been removed. Veins of 

 this red and softer stone are likewise seen spreading in delicate lines from the bottom 

 of the depression to other parts of the block. 



The reasons to be assigned for the circular character of the infiltrated matter is 

 not so obvious, and I must leave this to be accounted for by some more experienced 

 geological inquirer. I remain, 



Yours, &c. 



Malvern, Oct. 18th, 1834. W. ADDISON. 



TO MY HORSES. 



FROM THE SPANISH. 



On, on, my foaming chariot- steeds ; one gallant effort more : 

 On, on, my fleet blood-horses, on : your toils will soon be o'er. 

 Your provender is ready-set, — fresh litter for your bed ; 

 But your unhappy master, where, oh ! where, shall rest his head ? 



In peace, ye'll stretch your weary limbs, in peace, your eye-lids close. 

 And softly round your slumbers steal the twilight of repose. 

 But peace no more may light upon your master's heart or pillow : 

 A tempest-stricken wreck his soul ; his couch the weltering billow. 



More fell than thong or burnished gear, the dagger and the chain. 

 That drags your master's spirit down, — to madness goads his brain. 

 At home, your sufferings terminate ; the lash no longer sounds : 

 Home but to wildest frenzy wakes your master's woes and wounds. 



No thirst of glory vexes you ; no threat of ruin daunts : 

 Nor terror of the world's cold scorn, like hovering phantom, haunts. 

 No hopeless passion wastes your heart, — long, fondly, madly nurst ; 

 And yet more deeply cherished since of Heaven and man accurst. 



On, on, my gallant chariot-steeds, one generous effort more : 

 Well done, my fleet blood-horses, all your toils, at last, are o'er. 

 The corn is in your manger strewed ; and fresh and deep your bed : 

 But your devoted master, where shall rest his guilty head ? 



F. F. 



