| |
| ON, on, my brown Arab, away, away! | |
| Thou hast trotted o’er many a mile to-day, | |
| And I trow right meagre hath been thy fare | |
| Since they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-piled lair, | |
| To tread with those echoless, unshod feet | 5 |
| Yon weltering flats in the noontide heat, | |
| Where no palm-tree proffers a kindly shade, | |
| And the eye never rests on a cool grass blade; | |
| And lank is thy flank, and thy frequent cough, | |
| O, it goes to my heart—but away, friend, off! | 10 |
| |
| And yet, ah! what sculptor who saw thee stand, | |
| As thou standest now, on thy native strand, | |
| With the wild wind ruffling thine uncombed hair, | |
| And thy nostril upturned to the odorous air, | |
| Would not woo thee to pause, till his skill might trace | 15 |
| At leisure the lines of that eager face; | |
| The collarless neck and the coal-black paws | |
| And the bit grasped tight in the massive jaws; | |
| The delicate curve of the legs, that seem | |
| Too slight for their burden—and, O, the gleam | 20 |
| Of that eye, so sombre and yet so gay! | |
| Still away, my lithe Arab, once more away! | |
| |
| Nay, tempt me not, Arab, again to stay; | |
| Since I crave neither Echo nor Fun to-day. | |
| For thy hand is not Echoless—there they are, | 25 |
| Fun, Glowworm, and Echo, and Evening Star, | |
| And thou hintest withal that thou fain wouldst shine, | |
| As I read them, these bulgy old boots of mine. | |
| But I shrink from thee, Arab! Thou eatest eel-pie, | |
| Thou evermore hast at least one black eye; | 30 |
| There is brass on thy brow, and thy swarthy hues | |
| Are due not to nature, but handling shoes; | |
| And the bit in thy mouth, I regret to see, | |
| Is a bit of tobacco-pipe—Flee, child, flee! | |
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