On the spot where he saw the brindled form of the stealthy panther
Prowling like guilt through the tangles of the wood,
He sees the quiet steed, born in the spacious Merrimac meadows,
The old, faithful, honest steed,
Whose feet seemed shod with wind,
And whose snort was like the deep bass note of the ophicleide
In the fiery days of his youth;
Stamping the flies and whisking his stump of a tail
As he sluggishly moves toward the sparkling spring
Welling up to the rim of the mossy hogshead.