The blue shade gathers on thy glassy eye,
So sternly fix’d upon the evening sky;
Once full of light,
Through darkest night,
It proved its master’s guide to home and family!
Thy lovely form, once beauteous to behold,
For which thy master parted with his gold;
And this thy dappled hide,
Though once its owner’s pride,
Now for a thing of nought will soon be sold!
That ear through which the slightest sound inspir’d
Vigour, when pressing business oft requir’d;
Already cold as clay,
Doth now inactive lay,
Nor startles at that gun which now is fired!
Thy frolics and thy gambols now are past,
Thy last stage is run;—thou art dying fast:
Perhaps ere I,
At home shall be,
Thou unattended wilt have breath’d thy last!
The stall is vacant where thou lov’dst to be,
The curb and saddle now are nought to thee!
The whip and spur,
Thou car’st not for,
But leav’st to others as thy legacy!
While I string up my rhymes to make them chord,
And thus thy melancholy fate record,
Perhaps near thee,
In some old tree,
The lonely night bird sings thy funeral ode!
MORAL.
Some while their cup is full can laugh at Death,
And light esteem that power which lends them breath;
But be that far,
As yon pale star,
From him who now its progress witnesseth!
Did men but see how near is his approach,
They would with morning sun, or nightly torch,
Themselves prepare,
And search with care,
And strictly watch each avenue and porch!
Nor would they rest, at business or in bed,
Till every foe was found, and captive led;
Till all the soul,
From stains most foul,
Was wash’d, or till the contrite tear was shed!