48 



The pasture land knows not of rough plough or harrow, 

 The hoofs echo hollow and soft on the sward ; 

 The soul of the horses goes into our marrow — 

 My saddle's the kingdom, whereof I am lord ; 

 And, rolling and flowing beneath us like ocean, 

 Gray waves of the high ridge and furrow glide on ; 

 And small flying fences, in musical motion, 

 Before us, beneath us, behind us, are gone. 



Oh, puissant of bone and of sinew availing. 



To speed through the glare of the long desert hours ; 



My white-breasted camel, the meek and unfailing. 



That sighed not, like me, for the shades and the showers ; 



And bright little Barbs, with veracious pretences 



To blood ^ the Prophet's and Solomon's sires ; 



You stride not the stride, and you fly not the fences. 



And all the wide Hejaz is naught to the Shires. 



0, gay gondolier ! from thy night-flitting shallop 

 I've heard the soft pulses of oar and guitar ; 

 But sweeter 's the rhythmical rush of the gallop, 

 The '' fire in the saddle," the flight of the star. 

 Old mare, my beloved, no stouter or faster 

 Hath ever strode under a man at his need : 

 Be glad in the hand and embrace of thy master, 

 And pant to the passionate music of speed. 



Old Beauty — how quickly, as onw^ard she races 



And " comes through her horses " in spite of my hold, 



I catch the expression of jolly brown faces 



Of parties a-going it over the wold. 



They mostly look anxiously glad to be in it. 



All hitting, and holding, and bucketing past ; 



O, pleasure of pleasures ! from minute to minute — 



The pace and the horses — may both of them last. 



