RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 59

Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance:

And in this way he gained an honest main

tenance.

While he was talking thus, the lonely place,

The old man's shape, and speech, all troubled

me;

Im my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually, Wandering about alone and silently,

While I these thoughts within myself pursued,

He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

And soon with this he other matter blended, Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, But stately in the main; and when he ended, I could have laughed myself to scorn to find

In that decrepid man so firm a mind. "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure ; I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"

Wordsworth.

60

OLD DOBBIN.

OLD DOBBIN.

Here's a song for old Dobbin, whose temper and worth

Are too rare to be spurn'd on the score of his birth,

He's a creature of trust, and what more should we heed ?

'Tis deeds, and not blood, make the man and the steed.

He was bred in the forest, and turn'd on the plain,

Where the thistle-burs cling to his fetlocks and mane,

All ugly and rough, not a soul could espy The spark of good humour that dwelt in his

eye.

Half starved, and half frozen, the hail-storm would pelt,

Till his shivering limbs told the pangs that he felt;

But we pitied the brute, and, though laughed

at by all,

We fill'd him a manger and

gave him a stall.

He grew out of colthood, and lo! what a a change;

The knowing ones said it was mortally strange;

The foal of the forest, the colt of the waste, Attracted the notice of jockeys of taste.

The line of his symmetry was not exact, But his paces were clever, his mould was compact,

And his shaggy thick coat now appeared with a gloss,

Shining out like the gold that's been purg'd of its dross.

He carried the master to barter his grain, And ever return'd with him safely again; There was merit in that, for deny it who

may,

When the master could not, Dobbin could find his way.

The dairy-maid ventured her eggs on his back;

'Twas him, and him only, she'd trust with the pack.

The team-horses jolted, the roadster play'd pranks,

So Dobbin alone had her faith and her thanks.

We fun-loving urchins would group by his side;

We might fearlessly mount him, or daringly ride;

We might creep through his legs, we might plait his long tail;

But his temper and patience were ne'er known to fail.

We would brush his bright hide till 'twas free from a speck ;

We kiss'd his brown muzzle, and hugg'd his thick neck;

Oh! we prized him like life, and a heartbreaking sob

Ever burst when they threaten'd to sell our dear Dob.

He stood to the collar and tugg'd up the

hill

With the pigs to the market, the grist to the

mill,

With saddle or halter, in shaft or in trace, He was staunch to his work, and content with his place.

But mercy! how's this? my eyes filling with

tears!

Oh! how cruelly sweet are the echoes that

start

When memory plays an old tune on the heart.

There are drops on my cheek, there's a throb in my breast,

But my song shall not cease, nor my pen take its rest,

Till I tell that old Dobbin still lives to be

seen

With his oats, in the stable, his tares on the

green.

His best years have gone by, and the master who gave

The stern yoke to his youth, has enfranchised the slave:

So browse on my old Dobbin, nor dream of the knife,

For the wealth of a king should not purchase

thy life.

Eliza Cook.