PEGASUS IN POUND. ONCE into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, 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 From its belfry gaunt and grim; 'T was the daily call to labor, Not a triumph meant for him. Not the less he saw the landscape, Not the less he breathed the odors Thus, upon the village common, Then the sombre village crier, Wandered down the street proclaiming And the curious country people, Winged steed, with mane of gold. Thus the day passed, and the evening Fell, with vapors cold and dim; But it brought no food nor shelter, Brought no straw nor stall, for him. Patiently, and still expectant, Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, Saw the tranquil, patient stars; Till at length the bell at midnight And, from out a neighboring farm-yard, Then, with nostrils wide distended, And unfolding far his pinions, On the morrow, when the village Lo! the strange steed had departed, And they knew not when nor where. 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, Srengthening all who drink its waters, While it soothes them with its sound. |