The Iron Horse.

No song is mine of Arab steed -         My courser is of nobler blood,         And cleaner limb and fleeter speed,             And greater strength and hardihood         Than ever cantered wild and free         Across the plains of Araby.         Go search the level desert-land         From Sana on to Samarcand -         Wherever Persian prince has been         Or Dervish, Sheik or Bedouin,         And I defy you there to point             Me out a steed the half so fine -         From tip of ear to pastern-joint -             As this old iron horse of mine.         You do not know what beauty is -             You do not know what gentleness             His answer is to my caress! -         Why, look upon this gait of his, -         A touch upon his iron rein -             He moves with such a stately grace         The sunlight on his burnished mane             Is barely shaken in its place;             And at touch he changes pace,         And, gliding backward, stops again.         And talk of mettle - Ah! my friend,             Such passion smoulders in his breast         That when awakened it will send             A thrill of rapture wilder than             Ere palpitated heart of man             When flaming at its mightiest.         And there's a fierceness in his ire -             A maddened majesty that leaps         Along his veins in blood of fire,             Until the path his vision sweeps         Spins out behind him like a thread             Unraveled from the reel of time,             As, wheeling on his course sublime,         The earth revolves beneath his tread.         Then stretch away, my gallant steed!             Thy mission is a noble one:             You bear the father to the son,         And sweet relief to bitter need;         You bear the stranger to his friends;             You bear the pilgrim to the shrine,         And back again the prayer he sends             That God will prosper me and mine, -         The star that on thy forehead gleams         Has blossomed in our brightest dreams.         Then speed thee on thy glorious race!         The mother waits thy ringing pace;         The father leans an anxious ear         The thunder of thy hoofs to hear;         The lover listens, far away,         To catch thy keen exultant neigh;         And, where thy breathings roll and rise,         The husband strains his eager eyes,         And laugh of wife and baby-glee         Ring out to greet and welcome thee.         Then stretch away! and when at last             The master's hand shall gently check         Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast,             The world will pat thee on the neck.