Will they ill-use thee?—if I thought—but no,—it cannot be;
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free;—
And yet if haply when thou’rt gone, this lonely heart should yearn,
Can the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return?
“Return!”—alas, my Arab steed! what will thy master do,
When thou, that wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the gathering tears
Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears?
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot alone,
Where, with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;