Death of the War Horse

Farewell, my horse! thy work is done, Thy splendid form lies low, Thy limbs of steel have lost their strength, Thy flashing eye its glow. No more thy quivering nostrils sniff The battle from afar, No more beneath thy flying feet The plains with thunder jar. For thou wert born a hero soul, In days when heroes fought, When men, borne by thy glorious strength, Immortal laurels sought. Seated upon thy nerve-strung form, Another life was mine, And well I knew the same high thrill Ran through my soul and thine. A throne thou wert to sit upon, And true as steel within, Whene’er I felt thy brave heart beat, My own has braver been. And when the bugle’s call to Charge Over the column ran, Thy arching crest, “with thunder clothed,” Loved best to lead the van. Upon the march, with tireless feet, Through mountain, gorge and plain, When others strayed thy place was kept, Through all the long campaign. But now, thy last, long halt is made: Thy last campaign is o’er; The bugle call, the battle shout Shall thrill thee never more. Where art thou gone—old friend and true? What place hast thou to fill? For it may be thy spirit form Somewhere is marching still. Here there are those whom we call men, Whose souls full well I know Another life may not deserve One-half so well as thou. And natures such as thine has been Another life may claim, And God may have a place for them Within his wide domain. His armies tread their glorious march Over the eternal plain, Their leader rides a snow white steed, Who follow in his train? We may not ever meet again; But, wheresoe’er I go, A cherished place within my heart Thou’lt have, old friend, I know. God made us both, and we have marched Firm friends whilst thou wert here; I only know I shall not blush To meet thee anywhere.