Classic Poem

I

Now saddle E L C ANELO ! — the freshening wind of morn,
Down in the flowery vega, is stirring through the corn;
The thin smoke of the ranches grows red with coming day,
And the steed is fiercely stamping, in haste to be away.

II

My glossy-limbed Canelo, thy neck is curved in pride,
Thy slender ears pricked forward, thy nostril straining wide;
And as thy quick neigh greets me, and I catch thee by the mane,
I'm off with the winds of morning, — the chieftain of the plain!

III

I feel the swift air whirring, and see along our track,
From the flinty-paved sierra, the sparks go streaming back;
And I clutch my rifle closer, as we sweep the dark defile,
Where the red guerillas ambush for many a lonely mile.

IV

They reach not El Canelo; with the swiftness of a dream
We 've passed the bleak Nevada, and San Fernando's stream;
But where, on sweeping gallop, my bullet backward sped,
The keen-eyed mountain vultures will wheel above the dead.

V

On! on, my brave Canelo! we 've dashed the sand and snow
From peaks upholding heaven, from deserts far below, —
We've thundered through the forest, while the crackling branches rang,
And trooping elks, affrighted, from lair and covert sprang.

VI

We 've swum the swollen torrent, — we've distanced in the race
The baying wolves of Pinos, that panted with the chase;
And still thy mane streams backward, at every thrilling bound,
And still thy measured hoof-stroke beats with its morning sound!

VII

The seaward winds are wailing through Santa Barbara's pines,
And like a sheathless sabre, the far Pacific shines;
Hold to thy speed, my arrow! at nightfall thou shalt lave
Thy hot and smoking haunches beneath his silver wave!

VIII

My head upon thy shoulder, along the sloping sand
We 'll sleep as trusty brothers, from out the mountain land;
The pines will sound in answer to the surges on the shore,
And in our dreams, Canelo, we 'll make the journey o'er.