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Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed,

I may not mount on thee again,-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind;

The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind:

The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold;

Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell! thou'rt sold, my steed-thou'rt sold!

Farewell! those free untirëd limbs full many a mile must roam,

To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home;

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bread prepare;

The silky mane I braided once must be another's

care.

The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee

Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:

Evening shall darken on the earth; and o'er the sandy plain

Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,

Thy master's home-from all of these my exiled one must fly :

Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;

And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,

Then must I, starting, wake to feel—thou'rt sold, my Arab steed.

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side;

And the rich blood that's in thee swells in thy indignant pain,

Till careless eyes which rest on thee may count each started vein.

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:

M

And yet if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,

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 vanished 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

alone,

roam, with weary foot

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,

"Twas here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!"

When last I saw thee drink!-Away! the fevered dream is o'er;

I could not live a day and know that we should meet no more.

They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong

They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.

Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?

"Tis false !-'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!

Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains;

Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

SAMUEL ROGERS.

BORN 1763.

DIED 1855.

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PRINCIPAL WRITINGS:- The Pleasures of Memory; Italy; Human Life.

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The Pleasures of Memory.

WILIGHT'S soft dews steal o'er the villagegreen,

With magic tints to harmonize the scene.

Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke,
When round the ruins of their ancient oak
The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play,
And games and carols closed the busy day.
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more
With treasured tales, and legendary lore.
All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows
To chase the dreams of innocent repose.

All, all are fled; yet still I linger here!
What secret charms this silent spot endear!

Mark yon old mansion frowning through the

trees,

Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze.
That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed.
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown
court,

Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When Nature pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.

See, through the fractured pediment revealed, Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured shield, The martin's old, hereditary nest,

Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest!

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall! That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly

hung,

Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
When round yon ample board, in due degree,
We sweetened every meal with social glee.
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest;
And all was sunshine in each little breast.
'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound;
And turned the blindfold hero round and round.