RUSKIN.

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THE WAR HORSE.

Sir Robert Clayton, a British cavalry officer, says of some war horses which had been humanely turned out to perpetual pasture, that while the horses were grazing on one occasion, a violent thunderstorm arose; at once the animals fell into line and faced the blazing lightning under an impression that it was the flash of artillery and the fire of battle.

* * * * *

PEGASUS IN POUND.

    Once into a quiet village,
      Without haste and without heed,
    In the golden prime of morning,
      Strayed the poet’s winged steed.

    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;
    ’Twas the daily call to labor,
      Not a triumph meant for him.

    Not the less he saw the landscape,
      In its gleaming vapor veiled;
    Not the less he breathed the odors
      That the dying leaves exhaled.

    Thus, upon the village common,
      By the school-boys he was found;
    And the wise men, in their wisdom,
      Put him straightway into pound.

    Then the sombre village crier,
      Ringing loud his brazen bell,
    Wandered down the street proclaiming: 
      There was an estray to sell.

    And the curious country people,
      Rich and poor, and young and old,
    Came in haste to see the wondrous
      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
      Sounded from its dark abode,
    And, from out a neighboring farm-yard,
      Loud the cock Alectryon crowed.

    Then, with nostrils wide distended,
      Breaking from his iron chain,
    And unfolding far his pinions,
      To those stars he soared again.

    On the morrow, when the village
      Woke to all its toil and care,
    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,
    Strengthening all who drink its waters,
      While it soothes them with its sound.