Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?
Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish’d from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,
Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears.
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary step alone,
Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on!
And sitting down by that green well, I’ll pause and sadly think:
It was here he bow’d his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!
When last I saw thee drink!—Away! the fever’d dream is o’er;