There hangs a sabre, and there a rein, With a rusty buckle and green curb chain; A pair of spurs on the old gray wall, And a mouldy saddle—well, that is all.

Come out to the stable—it is not far; The moss grown door is hanging ajar. Look within! There's an empty stall, Where once stood a charger, and that is all.

The good black horse came riderless home, Flecked with blood drops as well as foam; See yonder hillock where dead leaves fall; The good black horse pined to death—that's all.

All? O, God! it is all I can speak. Question me not—I am old and weak; His sabre and his saddle hang on the wall, And his horse pined to death—I have told you all.

FRANCIS ALEXANDER DURIVAGE.

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