(But “Roos” and the “Roan” fell dead on the way; the latter, when Aix was in sight!)

    And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
    Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
    With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
    And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.

    Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
    Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
    Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
    Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
    Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
    Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

    And all I remember is, friends flocking round
    As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground,
    And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
    As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
    Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
    Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

DYING IN HARNESS.

    Only a fallen horse, stretched out there on the road,
    Stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by the heavy load;
    Only a fallen horse, and a circle of wondering eyes
    Watching the ’frighted teamster goading the beast to rise.

    Hold! for his toil is over—­no more labor for him;
    See the poor neck outstretched, and the patient eyes grow dim;
    See on the friendly stones now peacefully rests his head—­
    Thinking, if dumb beasts think, how good it is to be dead;
    After the burdened journey, how restful it is to lie
    With the broken shafts and the cruel load—­waiting only to die.

    Watchers, he died in harness—­died in the shafts and straps—­
    Fell, and the great load killed him; one of the day’s mishaps—­
    One of the passing wonders marking the city road—­
    A toiler dying in harness, heedless of call or goad.

    Passers, crowding the pathway, staying your steps awhile,
    What is the symbol?  “Only death? why should you cease to smile
    At death for a beast of burden?” On through the busy street
    That is ever and ever echoing the tread of the hurrying feet!

    What was the sign?  A symbol to touch the tireless will. 
    Does he who taught in parables speak in parables still? 
    The seed on the rock is wasted—­on heedless hearts of men,
    That gather and sow and grasp and lose—­labor and sleep—­and then—­
    Then for the prize!  A crowd in the street of ever-echoing tread—­
    The toiler, crushed by the heavy load, is there in his harness—­dead.

JOHN BOYLE

* * * * *

PLUTARCH’S HUMANITY.