POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1933, 5 May 1880, Page 3

POETRY.

JERRY. By the • Old Bn ’ —Francis A. Duriyage. [From Turf, Field, and Farm.] His joyous neigh, like the clarion’s strain, i When we set before him his hay and grain, And the rhythmic beat i Of his flying feet, We never, never shall hear again ; , For the good horse sleeps Where the tall grass weeps, On the velvet edge of the emerald plain, By the restless waves of the billowy grain. And never will answer to voice or rein. By whipcord and steel he was never stirred, For he only needed a whispered word And a slackened rein to fly like a bird.

By loving hands was his neck caressed — Hands, like his own fleet limbs, at rest, Through blinding snow, in the murkiest night, With never a lamp in heaven alight— With the angry river a sheet of foam, Swiftly and safely he boro me home ; And I never resigned myself to sleep Till I’d rubbed him down and bedded him deep. If I ever can sit in the saddle again, With foot in stirrup and hand on rein, I shall look for the like of Jerry in vain. Steed of the desert or jennet of Spain Would ne’er for a moment make me forget My favorite horse, my children’s pet, With his soft brown eye and his coat of jet. He would have answered the trumpet’s peal, And charged on cannon and splintering steel; But humbler tasks did his worth reveal. To mill and to market, early and late : On the brown field, tracing the furrow straight; Drawing the carriage with steady gait Whatever the duty we had to ask, Willingly he performed his task. And when his life-work was all complete. He was found in his stable, dead on his feet. And in spite of each and every fool Whose brain and heart are hardened by rule, I have reached the conclusion that, on the whole, The horse that we loved possessed a soul!