Classic Poem

See! the sparks that fly from our hoof-strokes make
A fiery track that gleams in our wake;
Like a dream the dim landscape past us shoots;
Our horses fly. Orion:

They are useful brutes,
Though somewhat skittish; the foam is whit'ning
The crest and rein of my courser “Lightning;”
He pulls to-night, being short of work,
And takes his head with a sudden jerk;
Still heel and steady hand on the bit,
For that is “Tempest” on which you sit. Hugo:

'Tis the bravest steed that ever I back'd;
Did'st mark how he crossed yon cataract?
From hoof to hoof I should like to measure
The space he clear'd. Orion:

He can clear at leisure
A greater distance. Observe the chasm
We are nearing. Ha! did you feel a spasm
As we flew over it? Hugo:

Not at all. Orion:

Nathless 'twas an ugly place for a fall. Hugo:

Let us try a race to yon mountain high,
That rears its dusky peak gainst the sky. Orion:

I won't disparage your horsemanship,
But your steed will stand neither spur nor whip,
And is hasty and hard to steer at times.
We must travel far ere the midnight chimes;
We must travel back ere the east is grey.
Ho! “Lightning!” “Tempest!” Away! Away!