The Alexandrine Metre

BOUND! bound! my desert-barb from Alexandria!
My wild one! Such a courser no Emeer nor Shah
Bestrides — whoever else may in those Eastern lands

Rock in magnificent saddles upon field or plain!
Where thundereth such a hoof as thine along the sands?

Where streameth such a tail? Where such a meteor-inane?

As it stands written, thus thou neighest loud, " Ha! ha!"
Spurning both bit and reins. The winds of Africa
Blow the loose hair about thy chaffron to and fro!

Lightning is in thy glance, thy flanks are white with foam,
Thou art not, sure, the animal snaffled by Boileau,

And whom Gottschedian turnpike-law forbade to
roam!

He, bitted, bridled, reined, steps delicately along,

Ambling for ever to the air of one small song,

Till he reaches the Ccesura. That's a highway ditch

For him to cross! He stops — he stares — he snorts: — at last
Sheer terror screwing up his pluck to a desperate pitch,

He— jumps one little jump, and the ugly gulf is passed.

a The allusion here is to Dr. Gottsched, the German Aristarchus of the eigh-
teenth century. He was Professor of Metaphysics, Philosophy, and Logic, in the
University of Leipsic; and his error lay in endeavouring to make Poetry meta-
physical, philosophical, and logical.

Thou, meanwhile, speedest far o'er deserts and by streams,
Like rushing flame! To thee the same Caesura seems
A chasm in Mount Sinai. The rock is riven in two!
Still on! Thy fetlocks bleed. Now for an earthquake shock!
Hurrah! thou boundest over, and thine iron shoe

Charms rattling thunder and red lightning from the rock!

Now hither! Here we are! Knowest thou this yellow sand?
So! — there! — that's well! Reel under my controlling hand!
Tush! never heed the sweat: — Honour is born of Toil.

I'll see thee again at sunset, when the southern breeze
Blows cool. Then will I lead thee o'er a soft green soil,
And water thee till nightfall in the Middle Seas.