The Iron Horse.

    No song is mine of Arab steed -
    My courser is of nobler blood,
    And cleaner limb and fleeter speed,
        And greater strength and hardihood
    Than ever cantered wild and free
    Across the plains of Araby.

    Go search the level desert-land
    From Sana on to Samarcand -
    Wherever Persian prince has been
    Or Dervish, Sheik or Bedouin,
    And I defy you there to point
        Me out a steed the half so fine -
    From tip of ear to pastern-joint -
        As this old iron horse of mine.

    You do not know what beauty is -
        You do not know what gentleness
        His answer is to my caress! -
    Why, look upon this gait of his, -
    A touch upon his iron rein -
        He moves with such a stately grace
    The sunlight on his burnished mane
        Is barely shaken in its place;
        And at touch he changes pace,
    And, gliding backward, stops again.

    And talk of mettle - Ah! my friend,
        Such passion smoulders in his breast
    That when awakened it will send
        A thrill of rapture wilder than
        Ere palpitated heart of man
        When flaming at its mightiest.
    And there's a fierceness in his ire -
        A maddened majesty that leaps
    Along his veins in blood of fire,
        Until the path his vision sweeps
    Spins out behind him like a thread
        Unraveled from the reel of time,
        As, wheeling on his course sublime,
    The earth revolves beneath his tread.

    Then stretch away, my gallant steed!
        Thy mission is a noble one:
        You bear the father to the son,
    And sweet relief to bitter need;
    You bear the stranger to his friends;
        You bear the pilgrim to the shrine,
    And back again the prayer he sends
        That God will prosper me and mine, -
    The star that on thy forehead gleams
    Has blossomed in our brightest dreams.
    Then speed thee on thy glorious race!
    The mother waits thy ringing pace;
    The father leans an anxious ear
    The thunder of thy hoofs to hear;
    The lover listens, far away,
    To catch thy keen exultant neigh;
    And, where thy breathings roll and rise,
    The husband strains his eager eyes,
    And laugh of wife and baby-glee
    Ring out to greet and welcome thee.
    Then stretch away! and when at last
        The master's hand shall gently check
    Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast,
        The world will pat thee on the neck.