To His Horse

To His Horse José Maria Heredia

Friend of my hours of melancholy gloom,

To soothe me now, come, scouring o’er the plain;

Bear me that I forgetfulness may gain,

Lost in thy speed from my unhappy doom.

The fond illusions of my love are gone,

Fled never to return! and with them borne

Peace, happiness and hope: the veil is drawn,

And the bared cheat shows frenzy’s end alone.

O! how the memory of pleasures past

Now wearies me! horrible that soul’s state,

Of flowers of hope, or freshness desolate!

What then remains it? Bitterness o’ercast.

This south wind kills me: O! that I could rest

In sweet oblivion, temporary death!

Kind sleep might moderate my feverish breath,

And my worn soul again with strength be blest.

My Horse, my friend, I do implore thee, fly!

Though with the effort break my frame so weak:

Grant for thy master’s brows he thus may seek

Sleep’s balmy wings spread forth benignantly.

Let him from thee gain such refreshment kind;

Though much another day it caused me shame,

In my mad cruelty and frenzy’s blame,

My crimson’d heels, and thy torn flanks to find.

Pardon my fury! beats upon my eye

The sorrowing tear. Friend, when my shouts declare

Impatience, then the biting spur to spare

Wait not, but toss thy mane, thy head, and fly.