Then must I startling wake to feel thou’rt sold, my iron steed.
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, the lurking dark oxide,
In rust marks lie, encrusted deep, along thy wire-ribbed side;
And thy rich gloss, oft praised by swells, show strong metallic grain.
Till careless eyes that on thee gaze shall count each patent vain.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no—it cannot be,
Thou art so swift, so easy worked, so silent, 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 iron steed, what will thy master do,