The Old War-Horse

He paweth no more in the field, Where glitter the spear and the shield; Nor heareth the thunder of war, Nor smelleth the battle afar; In his eyes is no glory of gleam, And his strength is the strength of a dream.

He never turned back from the sword, When the pride of the land was his lord, Yet his neck is bowed meekly—the brave Can be meek, aye, as meek as a slave,— And he works near the dark of his day,— ’Twas his pride (he was taught) to obey.

In the gloaming of life his old eyes May see visions of glory arise; Who knows but within his old heart May thousands of memories start Of the march and the drum and the fife, Of the charge and the cry and the strife?

Who can tell? But, hark! once again He hears, as in whispers the strain Of that long-ago hid in his blood; It comes nearer; he paweth the mud Of the street, and his sinews rejoice, And he hears not his slave-master’s voice!

Though his form no gay war-trappings deck, The thunder returns to his neck; Ha! ha! he is free! for the sound Of the trumpet his soul has unbound! He is off! not a pause, till he comes To the midst of the din of the drums.

He has taken his place, as of yore, He is marching to battle once more; They may mock him as haggard and thin, They may laugh at the marks on his skin, But naught recks he; the master he bore, His name may well cover them o’er.

The music is hushed; the array Of the soldiers has vanished away; The old charger, poor fellow, elate No longer, returns to his fate; And the light of his eyes has burned low, And his paces are feeble and slow.

He has heard his last call to parade From the trumpet of death and obeyed; And the brave soldier-steed from all harness is freed Evermore, and his sleep Is so placid and deep, He needs fear no awakening. Rest to his shade!

There are men, there are women who toil At the mill or the mart or the soil, Who wearily drudge day by day Till the soul of them seems to decay; Only seems,—for within, after all, There’s a something that waits for its call.

And if even the call never come In this world of the deaf and the dumb, When the Great Trumpet music shall fall On the ears of the quick and the dead, They shall burst from their clay And hasten away To their place in that host of which God is the Head.