Classic Poem

Didst thou, O Job, for war or state,
Give to the gen'rous horse
His confidence, his boldness great,
His spirit, and his force?

Hast thou with terror cloth'd his mane?
Canst thou his courage shake?
Or cause him, like the little wren,
Or silly insect quake?

With formidable native fire
His snorting nostrils glow;
And smoke and flame in furious ire,
Amidst the battle blow.

Proud of his strength he paws the ground,
And prances on the land,
Tears up the turf, and spurns around,
The passive yielding sand.

When he the noisy martial sounds,
And warlike trumpet hears;
He then rejoicing leaps and bounds,
And pricks his list'ning ears.

When he perceives, even from afar,
Th' advancing foes alarms,
He forward springs to face the war,
And meet the glit'ring arms.

Dauntless he runs on sword and spear,
The warrior's files invades;
And makes his passage without fear,
Thro' num'rous thick brigades.

The weapons which the horseman wields,
He mocks with haughty breast;
Of rattling quivers, blazing shields,
He makes a perfect jest.

In rage he beats and bites the ground,
He dances o'er the plain;
Nor startles at the alarm's sound,
But pulls the curbing rein:

Derides the trumpet, scorns the shock,
And mad the bridle champs;
Smelling afar the sulph'rous smoke,
And thunder of the camps.