From a distant Eastern island Had the precious wood been brought; Till, discouraged and desponding, Found oblivion in sleep. Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! Woke, and from the smoking embers Seized and quenched the glowing wood; And therefrom he carved an image, O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! Shape from that thy work of art. It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves; And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves. Loud the clamorous bell was ringing Not a triumph meant for him. Not the less he saw the landscape, Thus, upon the village common, By the school-boys he was found; Then the sombre village crier, And the curious country people, Rich and poor, and young and old, Came in haste to see this wondrous Winged steed, with mane of gold. Thus the day passed, and the evening But it brought no food nor shelter, Patiently, and still expectant, Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, Saw the tranquil, patient stars; PEGASUS IN POUND. Till at length the bell at midnight And, from out a neighbouring farm-yard, Then, with nostrils wide distended, To those stars he soared again. On the morrow, when the village But they found, upon the greensward Where his struggling hoofs had trod, Pure and bright, a fountain flowing From the hoof-marks in the sod. From that hour, the fount unfailing Gladdens the whole region round, Strengthening all who drink its waters, While it soothes them with its sound. |