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Title: To A Horse, Dying Alone!
Author: John Castillo [
More Titles by Castillo]
Poor, hapless beast, thus left by all below,
Amongst the noblest of God’s creatures, thou,
Once free from pain,
Didst trip the plain;
But Oh! how much thy case is alter’d now!
Thy groom and master seem to stand aloof!
Is it, because of thee they’ve had enough?
Is it respect,
Or sheer neglect,
That of their care thou hast no stronger proof?
Perhaps they do not like to hear or see
Thy last deep groan, thy dying agony!
The grass upspurn’d,
Thine eye upturn’d,
Bespeak its weight to heedless passers by!
That hoarse deep sigh, the sad effect of sin,
Proclaims the depth of agony within!
On man and beast,
Greatest and least,
Grim Death doth feed, and glad his victim win!
The blue shade gathers on thy glassy eye,
So sternly fix’d upon the evening sky;
Once full of light,
Through darkest night,
It proved its master’s guide to home and family!
Thy lovely form, once beauteous to behold,
For which thy master parted with his gold;
And this thy dappled hide,
Though once its owner’s pride,
Now for a thing of nought will soon be sold!
That ear through which the slightest sound inspir’d
Vigour, when pressing business oft requir’d;
Already cold as clay,
Doth now inactive lay,
Nor startles at that gun which now is fired!
Thy frolics and thy gambols now are past,
Thy last stage is run;—thou art dying fast:
Perhaps ere I,
At home shall be,
Thou unattended wilt have breath’d thy last!
The stall is vacant where thou lov’dst to be,
The curb and saddle now are nought to thee!
The whip and spur,
Thou car’st not for,
But leav’st to others as thy legacy!
While I string up my rhymes to make them chord,
And thus thy melancholy fate record,
Perhaps near thee,
In some old tree,
The lonely night bird sings thy funeral ode!
MORAL.
Some while their cup is full can laugh at Death,
And light esteem that power which lends them breath;
But be that far,
As yon pale star,
From him who now its progress witnesseth!
Did men but see how near is his approach,
They would with morning sun, or nightly torch,
Themselves prepare,
And search with care,
And strictly watch each avenue and porch!
Nor would they rest, at business or in bed,
Till every foe was found, and captive led;
Till all the soul,
From stains most foul,
Was wash’d, or till the contrite tear was shed!
A fountain from the mount of God doth flow,
For all who will take time and pains to go,
Whose healing stream,
Doth freely teem,
To wash polluted sinners white as snow!
A soul thus wash’d shall joyful rise again,
By Death unscar’d, and on angelic wing,
Shall mount above,
To Him whose love
And power deprive the monster of his sting!
[The end]
John Castillo's poem: To A Horse, Dying Alone!
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