Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind The farther 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 bed prepare; 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's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each startled vein. Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it can not 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 by the pyramids, 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 strong They 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, may claim thee for his pains! LESSON LXXXIII. VANITY FAIR. The following Satire was written by THOMAS H. BAYLY, of England, who probably took the idea from the description of Vanity Fair in the Pilgrim's Progress, a popular religious Allegory or Dream, written by JOHN BUNYAN, an English Tinker of remarkable talent in that style of compositions. To Vanity Fair all my neighbors have been, To see all the sights that were there to be seen; Old and young, rich and poor, were all hurrying there, To pick up a bargain at Vanity Fair! A very rich man ostentatiously came, To buy with his lucre a liberal name; He published his charities everywhere, A lady, whose beauty was on the decline, Another, so plain that she really resigned And came back quite a genius from Vanity Fair! A soldier came next, and he flourished a flag, A mathematician there made up his mind Another, despising refinement and grace, Growled at all who were near, with a frown on his face; A ci-devant beau, with one foot in the grave, The next was an orator, longing to teach, One sailed to the Red Sea-and one to the Black; One raised on new doctrines his personal pride,- A poet came last with a fine rolling eye, His shirt collar open-his neckcloth thrown by ;- LESSON LXXXIV. TIME. The following stanzas are extracted from the Childe Harold of LORD BYRON. The first stanza is what in rhetoric is both an apostrophe and an invocation, an address to an unreal being, and a calling upon him. In the fourth stanza are specimens of exclamation and interrogation, also figures of rhetoric. The measure of the stanza is elsewhere described. Oh time! the beautifier of the dead, And only healer when the heart hath bled- My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift. It is not that I may not have incurred For my ancestral faults or mine, the wound The vengeance which shall yet be sought and found, But let it pass-I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. And if my voice break forth, 't is not that now |